Tea and Cadavers
by darthsydious
Summary: Prompt fill for mizjoely. Even though we know it isn't Molly saying "I demand you speak!" in the trailer, what if it is anyway? Victorian!lock and eventual Sherlolly. Warstan. Takes place during the Jack the Ripper murders. As the Ripper closes in on his supposed final victim, Sherlock gets closer to finding the real killer, and to Molly Hooper.
1. Chapter 1

_Click click click click click_

Well heeled boots along the sidewalk was little more than background noise to Molly Hooper. Her office windows were sidewalk level. She learned to deal with the traffic, pushing it to the back of her mind while she finished her paperwork. Today had been an unusually grisly day. Not that her line of work wasn't grim, she was a pathologist after all, most people would call that dark. Molly had always found it fascinating, and didn't mind one bit the gore and mess that came with it. Today however another corpse from the Jack the Ripper case had been brought in. The mutilation seemed to turn the head pathologist's stomach, and while Molly did not relish seeing someone of either sex brutalized, she understood the work must be done, so swallowing whatever bile seemed determined to come up, she tied a mask over her face, lining it with a scented kerchief (this body was particularly pungent) and set to work.

The morgue was unusually quiet as she worked, her voice echoing as she spoke of her findings. Near the table was a phonograph, to record her performing the autopsy (a relatively new idea, but Scotland Yard was keen to use any advances of the modern world, especially on such a large case). In the corner, his back to her, Doctor Stamford took down her findings by hand (he was mistrustful of the phonograph). Every now and then he grunted a question over his shoulder, and she answered best she could. She was honestly surprised such a prestigious case had been given to her; she was, after all, new to the department, and a woman at that. Still, if she could make a name for herself on such an important file, perhaps they would trust her with more.

"I'm going to fetch a glass of water, will you need anything?"

"Yes, more gauze, and a sack for the organs, what's left of them. I'm nearly finished, you needn't worry the phonograph will catch what I'm saying." Stamford nodded, still quite pale, and hurried out without another glance over his shoulder. Molly continued her narration aloud:

" _There is little left of the renal artery to which the kidney should be attached, however the organ itself is missing, and the length of renal artery measures no more than two point five centimeters. The way in which the kidney has been removed suggests that the killer knew what he was doing, using most likely a sharp, pointed knife, I should say at least six inches long."_

She paused, adjusting her mask as she studied the interior of the corpse a little longer.

" _He must have had had a good deal of knowledge as to the position of the abdominal organs, and the way to remove them-"_

The door at the far end of the room opened and shut. Molly did not bother to look up, understanding it was probably Stamford.

" _What I should like to know is where this man received such knowledge of anatomy. It is my belief he is no ordinary man, but one who has studied at a university, whether he graduated or not, he shows a fascination with the human body, obviously one of an unhealthy nature as each of his victims have been gutted, but the organs placed in a manner as if he were arranging flowers rather than a mutilated corpse. It seems-"_

She stopped suddenly, when she happened to glance up and see a figure in the doorway. He was tall, but in the dim light of the entry, she could not see his face. His Inverness coat was draped over him, showing that he was broad-shouldered.

"May I help you with something?" she asked. The man did not speak, and Molly, perhaps knowing too well what a man was capable of (the remains of Catherine Eddowes was more than proof of that), felt her stomach turn. "Is the doctor expecting you?" her query was met with silence, and Molly slipped a scalpel from her apron pocket. "Sir I demand you answer me!"

The man drew breath, as if suddenly realizing she was speaking to him, the door behind him burst open, cutting off whatever he was about to say.  
"Bloody Hell, Holmes, where the devil have you been?!" a shorter man entered in, he seemed far too angry for his stature compared to the towering gentleman he was addressing. "Stamford is upstairs what are you doing-" the second man suddenly noticed Molly standing by the corpse, realized she was a woman, and quickly removed his hat.

"Excuse me," he glanced at Holmes, who was still standing where he'd stopped. He elbowed him. "Take your hat off you idiot," the man hissed. The one addressed as 'Holmes' blinked, removing his hat, still staring at Molly, who was now confused as ever.

"I'm sorry; do you have permission to be down here? I'm performing an autopsy, it's very important I finish-"

"Sherlock Holmes," the man interrupted, at last finding his voice. "How do you do, Stamford directed me down here after I inquired as to the latest Ripper victim. I am assisting Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard on this case as they seem content to only run about with their heads up their-" the shorter man coughed, and Holmes glanced at him, then cleared his throat. "Anyway, this is my associate, Doctor John Watson."

"How do you do," Molly nodded to the shorter man. "I'm the latest recruit to the morgue; Doctor Stamford has directed the autopsies regarding the Ripper case to me, I'm Doctor Molly Hooper,"

"Doctor Hooper," Watson nodded.

"May we?" Holmes asked, and Molly nodded, tugging off a blood-stained glove to shut off the phonograph. "I can finish recording it later," she said, when Watson asked her to finish first. "I'm nearly done; I'm really waiting for Stamford to come back with an organ sack."

"I should like a copy of the post-mortem, when it is finished."

"I can have a copy typed up for you in a little while," Molly agreed.

"A copy of the record, as well, if it can be managed."

"We don't copy the recorded post-mortems, but once Scotland Yard has gone over it, I can loan it to you."

"Very well," Holmes agreed, though he seemed loath to let Scotland Yard have it first.

"The police mentioned this victim was found in a similar manner to the previous," Watson said. "The killer arranges the organs outside of the victims?"

"Yes," Molly nodded. "In the case of Miss Eddowes, she was gutted, much like Polly Nichols and Annie Chapman, but Mrs. Chapman's organs, like Miss Eddowes, had been arranged so the intestines were thrown over her right shoulder. There are some variations in how the victims are found. Miss Eddowes intestines were almost fully distended, some fecal matter smeared over her face. The womb- er, uterus and a portion of the bladder had been removed in Chapman's case, but Eddowes uterus and kidney have been removed here. It seems to me that with each murder, he seems to become more and more precise. Organ removal seems to be an art for him, and he likes to take several with him when he goes, what he does with them, I wouldn't know, perhaps he keeps them, studies them, or heaven help us, eat them, we won't know until he is caught." Her boldness in her statement made both men pause, and Holmes was struck by the absolute strength this woman possessed. Molly Hooper continued after a moment. "The facial mutilation of Eddowes, however, is unique compared to the other corpses."

"You said earlier that you believe the killer has some skill of a surgeon," Holmes said. Molly nodded.  
"Some, knowing what I do now after looking at Miss Eddowes, I believe he has an intimate knowledge with anatomy, the kidney, for example, as I am sure you know Doctor Watson, requires a good deal of knowledge to remove," Watson nodded in agreement, making note of that. Holmes glanced between the two of them questioningly.

"It can be overlooked as it is covered by membrane," Watson supplied and Sherlock murmured, understanding.

"Judging by the skill of the killer, was this done in a hurry, or would you say he had time?" Sherlock asked. Molly directed their gaze to the gaping wound in the abdomen of the corpse.

"It might be done in five minutes, it might take him longer, but that is the least time it could be done in." Holmes nodded, clearly pondering what she said. "The police seem to think there would be a terrific amount of gore on the man inflicting these wounds, that he would require an apron to keep himself clean, but I should swear in court that it is quite the opposite in the case of these killings." Holmes raised an eyebrow, glancing at Watson for the briefest of seconds.

"Do you?"

"All the abdominal wounds were inflicted by a person kneeling at the right side of the body; the women are all lying flat on their backs and killed in a way that the blood will pour out, rather than spurt. He slices their necks first, to keep them from struggling and to bring blood flow slow and steady, much like one does to a pig they want to butcher. The more still the animal, the less-likely the blood will spurt when you gut it. The bodies cannot be moved once the neck is cut. They are gutted where they fall." Holmes took a step closer, pulling out a small collapsible magnifying glass, peering at the gash.

"You said the knife was no more than six inches?"

"At least six inches," she corrected. "It could be longer, and very sharp, the blade would not be serrated, as the cut is quite clean and deep. He did not saw her open."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "That much is clear." He closed the magnifying glass, pocketing it. "Thank you, Doctor Hooper, I shall be in touch, do call if you find anything else."

"I will have a copy of the report in a few hours, shall I mail it?"

"If it could be brought by hand, it would be most appreciated," he removed a card from his waistcoat pocket. "My address,"

"221b Baker Street?" she read aloud.

"You are familiar with it?"

"I live nearby," was all she said.  
"Good," he answered. "I should hate for you to be anywhere near Whitechapel." He nodded to her then. "I shall expect you at four."

"Oh no that won't do," Molly shook her head. "I'm on the clock until seven. I'm afraid I would be intruding on your dinner if I stopped after work."

"Nonsense, come after your shift, by all means, the sooner I receive the information the better, Doctor Watson and his wife are joining me for dinner as it is, it is no trouble to set another place. I am curious to hear more of your findings regarding the Ripper case." Molly blinked, startled by his invitation.

"Very well…" she nodded. "I will come, most likely not before eight."

"I look forward to it," he nodded to her, and then replaced his hat. Watson then smiled, pleased, before following Holmes out of the morgue.

 **Upstairs, Barts Hospital**

"Mary and I are joining you for dinner all of a sudden?" John asked.

"Of course you are," Sherlock retrieved his gloves from his pocket, tugging them on. "I can't very well dine alone with a woman I just met, what would Mrs. Hudson say? Besides, she certainly wouldn't have come if I had not included you and Mrs. Watson, I should worry for her mental health if she did agree to dinner with a man she only just met, considering her line of work and her current caseload."

"Hm," Watson regarded Holmes carefully, eyes twinkling.  
"Oh come off it and say what it is that you want to say."

"You seem to admire her, is all," Watson said, choosing his words carefully.

"I do," Sherlock admitted. "Her skill is exceptional, her sex be damned," John raised an eyebrow, though he did not disagree. "And did you note how she discussed the wounds? She understood instantly how the victim was killed," Sherlock continued.

"So you like her merely because her description of the murder fits your theory,"

"No, it means my theory of how the murders take place is no longer theory, it is fact," Sherlock slapped Watson on the back. "She is brilliant, Watson!" he jogged out to the street, flagging down a cab. Watson followed, coming to stand beside him. "If there was such a woman in the world for me, I think perhaps Molly Hooper is my match."

"Holmes!" Watson didn't know why he was scolding his friend, whether it was because he used her Christian name before he had been given permission, or that Holmes was so decidedly for Miss Hooper in the first place. He had never known Sherlock Holmes to seek out anyone, much less a candidate for marriage. Not even The Woman fell into that category.

"Hurry up, Watson," Sherlock called, already climbing into the cab. "We must make haste."

"Where are we going?"

"The Diogenes Club," Sherlock called up the address to the driver and the carriage jerked forward. "I must inquire as to where exactly Doctor Hooper lives."

"Holmes…" Watson's tone was warning.

"Any street near Whitechapel is too close," Holmes explained. "If she does in fact reside near Baker Street, I should like to know how close, so I can assign some of my Irregulars to look after her on her walks home, perhaps my brother can employ a carraige to see her home. She most likely takes long shifts at Barts, and I should dislike for her to walk home in the early hours of the morning, or after dark, alone. She might very well be the key to helping us find the Ripper." Watson studied his friend for a long while. Holmes seemed to lean forward, as if willing the carriage to go faster. "She is important, Watson," Holmes turned to him, quite serious. "And not merely due to her knowledge of pathology."

"Holmes you only just met her, you were barely in the room for more than ten minutes!"

"For some people ten months is hardly enough time to know a person, in others, ten minutes more than suffices."

"Is she so easily read, then, that you know her worth?" Watson asked.

"No," Sherlock looked back out the window of the cab. "I cannot explain what I mean, but Watson…she must be protected. Her work is important, there is no one so capable as her. There is no woman like her. You did not hear her when I first came down to the morgue. Her understanding is far better than Stamford's, she pieces things together faster than Scotland Yard ever could. She is…"

"Brilliant, yes, you've said," John chortled. The points of his mustache turned up as he smiled. "Alright, Mary and I will come to dinner. Mary would love to play matchmaker." Sherlock's smile was suddenly bashful, and he seemed to be doing his best to suppress it. "There's no shame in finding a woman attractive, you know," John said with a laugh. "You like her, that's fine, see if she comes tonight, but don't scare her."

"I should think she'd scare you first," Sherlock murmured and John could not disagree.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes was, for the first time in his life, agitated at the prescence of a woman. No woman should put him on edge like this. There was of course 'The Woman', but she put his back up much like a cat being rubbed the wrong way. Molly Hooper agitated him in the way he couldn't describe. He'd first come upon her in the morgue at St. Barts, she was narrating an autopsy into a phonograph, up to her elbows in gore, muttering to herself over the oddness of the murder and what sort of killer Jack the Ripper was. Not at all pale or green at the sight of the body before her, she seemed more frustrated with the lack of kidney than with the front of her smock stained with blood. She was magnificent.

Not that women covered in gore did things to Sherlock Holmes, mind, he was simply amazed that a woman could be so fearless. He'd invited her to dinner (John and Mary would be attending as well of course) and she agreed. Arriving only just after eight, she removed her coat, brushing at her skirts, apologizing that she hadn't a better dinner gown to wear (Sherlock couldn't have cared less, she could have come in her Barts uniform, for all that mattered) but Mary Watson reassured her she looked lovely.

"It's only Mr. Holmes, he never dresses up for anything, except a case," Mary smiled. Molly fiddled with the velvet collar of the dinner gown. In a moment, Sherlock had deduced she had bought it months ago. She rarely went out, so she hadn't had a chance to wear it. He already knew from Mycroft that her residence was only two streets up from Baker Street. She lived with her father (who was ill). As comfortable as Molly Hooper was in the morgue, she seemed to feel out of place in the parlor of Sherlock Holmes. He wished to put her at ease, though he admitted to himself that he had some kind of effect on her. She blushed when he complimented her skill, blushed redder still when he made comment on her frock. He wasn't used to paying compliments to ladies and meaning them, but for Molly, he happily meant them. Conversation during dinner, at Watson's request, had nothing to do with the Jack the Ripper case, nor anything else to do with Molly's line of work (how tedious).

"Do you dance, Miss Hooper?" Mary asked.

"I know how, but…I'm afraid I've never been to a proper dance. Father and I are quite new to London, and I didn't frequent the town dances before, busy with school."

"Oh we must take you with us next dance," Mary said with a smile. "John?"

"Indeed," he nodded. "I should be happy to escort two such fine ladies. Perhaps if Sherlock behaves he might join us."

"I don't dance." The smile that had begun to grow quickly diminished and Molly picked up her glass to hide her frown. Mary glanced between the pathologist and the consulting detective.

"Have you been to any of the galleries yet?"

"Oh yes!" Molly brightened, and Sherlock sat up a little, Watson nudging his arm. "Yes father's taken me several times. I quite like Samuel Palmer's works," again Sherlock slouched, and everyone couldn't help but notice. Dinner went on, and conversation turned to a topic Sherlock could take part in, music. He was delighted to learn of Molly's appreciation for music, her tastes were common, though she expressed an appreciation for Bach.

"Have you been to the opera yet?" Sherlock asked, and she shook her head.

"Neither have I," Mary said, seeing the pathologist look as though she'd said something wrong. "We should all go soon," she addressed the rest of the table, and both men nodded in agreement.

"I haven't anything really to wear to an opera," Molly looked at her place, quite red now.

"There is of course, the gramophone," Sherlock said. "One can always listen to the prima donnas on record."

"Oh I wouldn't know where to start," Molly said, flushed again.

"Er, how do you like living in town?" Mary asked, gently guiding the conversation again.

"Oh very much, London is lovely," Molly smiled. "Father is so pleased to be so near, and in such a pretty part of the city."

"Hm. Yes, I should imagine everyone _not_ in Whitechapel is pleased at the moment," Sherlock said. John kicked him under the table.

"Yes," again Molly's head bowed.

The first dinner was a disaster. Sherlock more than once put his foot in his mouth and Molly left looking dejected and poorly. At John and Mary's urging, when Molly said she must leave soon after dinner for her father was alone that evening, Sherlock saw her to the door. Already she'd tugged her coat on, picking up her bag.

"Thank you, Mister Holmes, please tell Mrs. Hudson dinner was delicious."

"I will, she will be most pleased," he said. "I am pleased you could come, and am sorry I had not thought to invite your father. You could have stayed longer."

"Oh, no, you couldn't have known," she said quickly, hand on the door. She seemed ready to fly out the door. Sherlock glanced back to see Mary gesturing for him to see her out the door.

"May I call you a cab?" he asked, and Molly nodded, appreciative. "I shouldn't wish for you to walk home at this hour," he explained and she nodded. Waiting on the sidewalk as they waited for a cab to come into sight was probably all of two minutes, but for Molly it felt like an eternity. One did at last come along and Sherlock flagged him down. He helped her up to inside before delivering her address to the driver.

"Goodnight Doctor Hooper," he called as the cab pulled away. He just barely caught her soft response over the driver's shouts. Upon entering 221b, Sherlock was met with John's scolding,

"You could have tried to at least compliment her, Holmes, good God, are you determined to drive her away?!" and Mary simply sighed in the way that told him he'd done quite badly. Resolved to do better, he sent Molly a note, requesting to meet her for tea the following afternoon to discuss the Ripper case, and whatever else she wished to.

 **Hooper residence, the following morning**

"Whatever else I wish to?" she murmured, confused. She'd been surprised when the maid brought her a note from Sherlock Holmes. She was certain she'd done very badly at dinner and would not be hearing from him except during work at Barts.

"What's that, my love?"

"Nothing, father," she held up the note for him to see before scanning the contents again. "It's from Sherlock Holmes, the detective?"

"Hm?"

"He's working on the Ripper case, the same as me, he wants to compare notes...I think."

"Bring him round," Mr. Hooper said with a smile. "I should be delighted to meet him. I quite enjoy Doctor Watson's published cases!"

"I- I think he is very busy," Molly excused. In truth, she did not want a repeat of the previous evening. Sherlock Holmes surely found her dull, and would find her father duller still. The Hooper's were not high in society, they'd come into money only recently, it was what had paid for Molly to attend a university and to take a position at St. Barts. As for her father, Frederick Hooper was a simple man with simple tastes. They lived on such a fine street because he'd always promised if they came into money they'd live anywhere but the east end of London, and he happily provided anything his daughter might wish for or need. Molly was too much like her father, simplicity. She didn't grow up with carriages and fine silks, why on earth should she start wearing them now? She owned a few good dresses, aside from the uniforms Barts provided. They kept a smart set of horses that could be driven double or single, and a comfortable carriage to take her father to the shops and church. The house was not large, and so only a maid and a cook were employed, both had other lodgings outside of the house, so it left Molly and her father quite on their own in the evenings, which in truth, Molly did not mind, though there were times she was lonely, and wished sometimes for company. She had thought that they had done quite well for themselves, considering where they'd come from. Still, she felt keenly the difference between her station and Sherlock Holmes' when she attended dinner at Baker Street, and the conversation over dinner lingered on arts, on books she'd never read and operas and plays and music she'd never heard of.

Still, if Sherlock Holmes was reaching out to her, and she could be of any help, she would gladly meet him. She knew herself well enough to know that despite what everyone would say, she liked Sherlock Holmes, she was taken with him, and heaven help her but he was beautiful. Even if he only wanted to meet and discuss the case, if he only wanted to come to the morgue and discuss pathology, Molly would take what little conversation she could. Not because she thought so little of herself but because she had at last found someone who understood her work and seemed to respect it. On that ground, she and Sherlock were on even footing. Perhaps he would never think of her beyond a pathologist, but if one day he might even regard her as a friend, then Molly would consider it a success and be happy.

The address he'd sent her was to an Indian tea room near Barts, one she had not heard of. It was a bohemian sort of place, and she thought instantly it reminded her of Sherlock's parlor. He sat at a corner table, a teapot and cups already waiting.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she murmured, cheeks rosy from the cool air.

"Not at all," he stood until she sat, and she murmured her thanks. He turned the cups over, pouring the fragrant tea. "Are you hungry? I've ordered something, the portions are small, and while I rarely eat on a case, Watson insists, besides which the Ripper case is proving far longer than the average, I must bow to my body's needs."

"Oh," again she blushed. It was not a posh restaurant, and so she picked up her cup, wrapping her fingers around the green china for warmth. "How did you know where to find me? My address, I mean?"

"I inquired," he shrugged.

"My father was very interested to learn I was working with you, or rather, that I had met you."

"We are working together, are we not?" Sherlock frowned. "You are the pathologist for this case, and I have need of a pathologist."

"Yes, I-I suppose so." His smile was bold, as if he'd expected her to say that and she felt stupid again.

"Now, shall we begin?" he unfolded his napkin, crossing one leg over the other. Elbows on the table, he steepled his fingers under his chin, narrowing his gaze. Molly, utterly confused, glanced around the room, and then back to the consulting detective.

"I'm sorry?"

"What do you know of the other victims?" he clarified. "You only performed the autopsies on Mary Ann, sometimes 'Polly' Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes." Molly was already nodding.

"Yes, the bodies are transferred to St. Barts, it's a recent change, I expect because people aren't flooding around this hospital. People expect them to be taken to The London; I was told they liked to wait for the wagons bearing the women to roll through."

"You approve of the change then, even if it means a matter of time and possible damage to the corpse?"

"The bodies are already damaged," Molly said quietly. A woman came, setting plates and smaller bowls between the two of them. Fragrant spices wafted up between them.

"Enjoy," the woman smiled and left. Molly leaned forward again, as did Sherlock.

"The time it takes from Whitechapel to Barts, nothing much can happen to them that wouldn't happen on the way to The London. Why? Do you suspect foul play?"

"If anyone would suspect that, Miss Hooper, I would expect you to be the first, as you are the one who has intimate knowledge of the women's remains. I have done my own investigating, it seems all of his victims thus-far share similar lifestyles, common women who don't make enough laundering, cleaning shops, the like."

"Women down on their luck looking for a little extra money, a number of them depending on liquor stronger than beer, though not necessarily drunk at the time of murder, a man comes along and rather than paying them for their services, slits their throats. Instead of stealing their pocket books he steals their organs," Molly shrugged. "Not exactly like your other cases, is it?"

"It is unique," Sherlock said, low so the woman tending the restaurant couldn't hear. "What of his methods?"

"I'm not a detective," Molly shook her head.

"But you have definite opinions on this man."

"Yes but that is pure conjecture-"

"I should like to hear anyway." He lifted the lid off of a metal bowl, using the tips of his fingers he removed a flat loaf of bread and set it on her plate. Taking one for himself, he replaced the lid. He began to plate up the meal between them. There Sherlock referred to as 'keema naan'. It turned out to have a filling of mincemeat. Besides which there were small dishes of dried fruit, and two kinds of desserts that looked too beautiful to eat. Sherlock seemed to know what all of them were so Molly, not wanting to appear rude or unadventurous, took a bite. Barely on her tongue, Molly decided she would stop taking meals at the tea stall outside of Barts and instead take every opportunity to come here instead.

"How did you know where I'm from?" she asked after several mouthfuls. Sherlock, pleased that she was enjoying the meal so immensely, shrugged.

"I inquired," he said and set down his cup. "Now, back to the case." She sighed, glancing around the room.

"Clearly, The Ripper is insane, but not in the manner most people think. The average person hears a man is mad, they picture someone foaming at the mouth, spitting obscenities and dressed in rags. The Ripper is hardly that, or we'd have found him by now. He's much more sinister. He gads about during the day, passing for an every-day-man. That's what the most horrifying thing is. He blends in with everyone, nothing stands out about him. He knows how to behave in a crowd, probably looks completely harmless." Sherlock nodded, impressed by her reasoning.

She took a sip of tea, clearing her throat as she paused to think. She'd had plenty of time to think about the man who could so brutally gut a woman while she worked on Miss Nichols and Miss Eddowes.

"Poor, most likely," she said at last. "Judging by the few descriptions some could-be witnesses have given. Lower classes, decidedly. He's mad, deriving some kind of pleasure from killing the women."

"But the way he kills them?" Sherlock prompts. "They must be on their backs when he does it, yes?"

"He is killing women who prostitute for a living," Molly shrugging, taking a piece of bread and dipping it in the sauce bowl between them. Deciding she liked it, she took another before finishing her thought: "All he has to do is act like a client. They'll be on their backs anyway soon enough. One of the girls it was done from behind and he laid her down. Either way, he's clever to do it when they're lying down, their skirts sop up the blood. He's quick, he has to be, some of the bodies are still warm when found, and others are left all night, it depends on where he's choosing his victims. We know he can do the job in five minutes, but if he isn't in a hurry, there is nothing to stop him from taking his time in removing what organs he's looking for. What's more, I think the police are ignoring the pattern in his removal of certain organs," Molly drew breath, continuing: "Out of the four current victims, he has removed the uterus from two of his victims,"

"Two out of four is hardly a pattern," Sherlock commented.

"But do you remember the report on Polly Nichols?" Molly pressed. Sherlock paused.

"The wounds to her abdomen, the lower part, and the cuts were deep, left to right," he said, thoughtful. Molly nodded.

"This indicates that perhaps he was trying to see if he could remove her organs. He might have been _looking_ for her uterus but was startled and had to leave her unopened." Sherlock sat back, clearly a thought he had not happened upon.

"And Elizabeth Stride?"  
"I think he was interrupted, everything else fits, the bruises, the way her throat was cut."

"A man running on adrenaline, about to do what he wills to his victim, something startles him, whether it's a cat or a drunk, he doesn't know, but he cannot be caught. Elizabeth Stride's death was not enough because he never got to finish the job," Sherlock realized, and Molly nodded.

"So he had to find another victim. He's not satisfied with simply killing; he has to take something with him." Sherlock sat back, quite astounded. Molly Hooper held his gaze, unsure if she'd said something wrong.

"How long between each of the victims' deaths excluding Stride and Eddowes?"

"Uh, well Nichols was the last day of August, Chapman was the eighth of September. Her uterus was taken. There was almost a month between her and the double murders of Stride and Eddowes."

"Nichols was found only thirty minutes after death, you think he was interrupted, or at the least startled?"

"It would explain why he killed again so soon after, and then waited almost a month after before finding another victim."

"So he obtains the organs from his victim, what then?"

"Experiments I imagine," Molly shrugged.

"For an entire month?"

"I don't know," Molly shook her head. "Perhaps. Perhaps he's satisfied for the time being. Perhaps he's waiting for the excitement to die down. After a girl is murdered, a prostitute, it does put the other girls' backs up, they might be loathe to go out at night, even if the bills need to be paid."

"I suppose we'll have to wait and see if his appetite has been fully sated, I personally, do not," Sherlock said. Molly looked horrified at his statement. "If we can catch him before he gets to his next victim, all the better for London, but nothing will lure him out but his own addiction. We will have to catch him in the act," Sherlock explained.

"So you intend to patrol Whitechapel?"

"Someone must," Sherlock replied. "Though I imagine with all this Ripper nonsense it's bad for the business of the night down there." Molly looked, for the first time, embarrassed. He shifted awkwardly. "No- not that I would know. I don't- I personally don't frequent those places you understand-"

"Oh no," Molly was shaking her head, afraid he'd misunderstood her. "No of course- I'd never believe you to- no." both trailed off, embarrassed.

The meal was finished so they gathered their things, Sherlock waved off her offer to pay for half.

"My pleasure, truly, you have helped immensely." She followed him out, tugging on her gloves.

"Mister Holmes, what was today about?"

"Sort of an apology, and, I hope, a second chance." They stopped outside of the tea room. "I was rather callous last night, and I wished to make up for it. I am not conventional, Miss Hooper, as I am sure you know by now. I invented my position, and do not adhere to most social constructs, I find most of them a waste of time. I do not, however, find _you_ a waste of time, and I find you charming and rather brilliant." Molly's mouth formed an almost perfect 'o' at his declaration.

"Well…I- that's kind of you to say."

"I should like to use our time together to the mutual benefit of both of us, and get to know one another better."

"Oh…" His face fell at her lack of words.

"If…I have misinterpreted your previous attraction to me I apologize-"

"No, no, that's not-" she shook her head, smiling. "I am surprised, is all. I thought you found me dull and stupid last night."

"On the contrary," he smiled. "I am not for every day conversation, art galleries bore me, but I enjoy music, and while I dearly love the Watson's, often their polite conversation over dinner bores me."

"I never know just what to say," Molly laughed. "I always feel as if I'm not interesting enough."

"One could never accuse you of such a thing," Sherlock promised. "Are you to work now?"  
"Not today, no, I will be the rest of the week, though." She fidgeted with her purse strings. "Would- would you care to tour the pathology museum with me? I haven't been yet, though I heard it's very interesting." Sherlock's interest piqued. He had been several times before, but the idea of touring with Molly certainly was a tempting offer.

"We have already broken several etiquette rules by dining alone, and discussing grisly topics that are far beneath society standards," he said. "I should be pleased to join you." He gave his arm, chuckling at her blushing smile.


	3. Chapter 3

The weeks of October went by slowly, and the work of the day had less to do with Jack the Ripper, and more of the usual fare. Molly thought often of the day Sherlock had accompanied her to Bart's pathology museum. It had been the start of a glorious friendship. After the pathology museum, the following day, Sherlock invited her to Baker Street to his little laboratory. She admired his experiments, provided the solution to two of them, and confessed her ignorance of the last one, to which he gladly explained. She wandered his library, saying nothing of the mess of the front parlor, but gave him a reprimanding look that he took to mean to not leave so much work for his housekeeper. During her shifts at Barts, he appeared now and again to see what she was working on and if he could take any cadavers off her hands. She's received a mysterious letter from a Mycroft Holmes, a rather official looking document, mind, instructing her to be as useful as she could to Sherlock. Showing him the document, Sherlock frowned, shrugged, and said that was just Mycroft seeing to it that she would not get into trouble for supplying body parts for Sherlock's experiments.  
"Who is Mycroft?" she asked.  
"My brother," he said, bending over the gut of a corpse to peer inside.

"Is he a politician?"

"He works in politics," Sherlock clarified.

"What's the difference?"

"Mycroft is…while an annoying pimple on the face of this earth, can hardly be compared to anything so small and dimwitted as a politician."

Molly did allow herself, sometimes, to hope that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't get bored with her. Not that she thought so little of herself, but she supposed someone like him would be attracted to someone exciting. Someone who knew about opera and art, as well as pathology. Talk was easier between them now, and varied from her work to her family and his, (he seemed loathe to discuss his brother). Usually he stopped by in time for her to take her late afternoon tea, and if he was not on a case, he would join her at the Indian tea room for a bite to eat.

Sometimes Mary Watson stopped by on Saturdays, Molly's day off. Molly was glad for her company; Mary was terribly fun, and terribly modern. One day she came calling riding a bicycle.

"Want to give it a go?" Mary asked, tugging her around to the garden where she'd wheeled it.

"Me? Oh goodness, no, I'd fall off it!"

"Oh it's easy!" Mary batted at the air. "Come on, sit astride, don't worry about your skirts, pretend it's a horse!"

"I don't know how to ride a horse!" Molly knew something of bicycles, so as soon as she was on the seat, her feet on the pedals, she started moving, unfortunately she wasn't quite used to balancing in such a fashion. She wobbled this way and that before toppling over. Mary laughed, hurrying to help her out from under the machine.

"Practice makes perfect, and you got farther than I did my first time on it. It's a lovely machine, I'll come over next week and help you learn."

"Miss Hooper," Molly looked to the back door where the maid was standing. "Mister Holmes is here to see you,"

"Oh!" Mary raised her eyebrows, looking from Molly to the doorway. "I'll sneak out the back,"

"Oh no, please, stay,"

"Nonsense, if Sherlock knows I'm here, it'll put him off, he's terrible with an audience, I'll slip away this time, but send me a note later, and let me know how everything goes!" Mary hopped onto the bicycle with no trouble at all, riding down the back path and through the open gate.

Sherlock had never come to the house before, so Molly was quite nervous. She smoothed her shirtwaist down, straightening her skirts before heading inside. Her father was already speaking with Sherlock, animatedly describing his plants. Sherlock seemed to be listening politely. If he had any interest in botany, Molly had no idea, but he seemed to humor the elderly gentleman.

"Father, I don't know if Mister Holmes is interested in your plants," Molly said.

"On the contrary," Sherlock said as both men turned to her. "I am interested in botany, particularly the poisonous variety."

"I can't say as I keep many dangerous plants, unless you count the little flytrap I bought, but there is something to be said for the study of lethal plants, perhaps I should see what there is in that, eh, Molly dear?" Mister Hooper chortled, pushing his glasses up further along his nose. "Well never mind that, come and see what Mister Holmes has brought for us, my girl." Sherlock stooped and picked up a large, lumpy parcel.

"What on earth is it?"

"Is there a place to set it up?" he asked, and Molly nodded, gesturing for him to follow through to the drawing room. Mr. Hooper rang for tea to be brought in.

"Have Mrs. Kelly cut some sandwiches," he said to the maid, low. "And let her know there may be a guest for dinner." The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried off to her duty as Hooper followed the sound of his daughter's voice and Mister Holmes' low baritone answering her.

In the drawing room, Molly and Sherlock stood near each other, the parcel had been unwrapped, and Molly's eyes were shining.

"Look father, look a gramophone!"

"Hm!" was all Hooper said, though his eyebrows lifted considerably, and he smiled. "What's it for?"

"Music, speeches, anything," Molly said while Sherlock cranked up the machine.

"I've brought something to play," Sherlock added, and removed a record from its protective sleeve.

"Oh, a little concert eh?" Hooper sat with a grunt, leaning forward with interest as Molly moved her skirts out of the way, perching herself on the nearest chair. Sherlock showed her how to place the record on the machine and set the needle just so. In a moment, a violin began to play. It was a piece Molly didn't recognize, but she was so struck by the liveliness, the beautiful sound coming from the machine that she couldn't' look anywhere but the machine.

Molly had never heard something so lovely in all her life. She finally tore her eyes away from the horn of the machine to her father, who had tears in his eyes.  
"What a lovely thing," he murmured. Sherlock, who had been watching Miss Hooper's reaction, and was so taken by the glittering shine in her eyes and the blush in her cheeks at the passion of the violinist suddenly remembered they were not alone.

"Who was that playing Mister Holmes?" Molly pleaded. "Oh it was lovely! Wasn't it? May we listen to it again?"

"If you like," Sherlock murmured, pleased. Molly noticed the very tips of the consulting detective's ears were red, and she suddenly recalled that he played the violin.

"Was…was that you playing?" she asked. He turned, startled, while Hooper crowed and applauded, not even bothering to wait for Sherlock to respond.

"It was," Sherlock admitted. "It is a piece I wrote, I compose…helps me think."

"Was it new? Is there a name for it?"

"There is a name," Sherlock bent over the machine, setting the needle again. Before Molly could ask him again what the name of the piece was, the record began again. They listened quietly, Hooper humming along to the chorus of the piece until its completion. "There is an appalling lack of recorded music, and while my playing is not opera, I hoped you would be pleased with it," Sherlock said, when the needle finished its course around the record. He stayed for tea, but declined dinner, though he did follow Hooper through to his study, wanting to look at the plants Molly's father had amassed.

"I myself am fascinated by all things growing," the elderly man chuckled. "I quite enjoy watching things change slowly, growing," Sherlock admired the flytrap that Hooper kept on his desk, inquiring as to if it would not grow larger, in a more spacious pot.

"I don't believe so, this one is just a small one, they're hard to transplant you see, quite rare, this particular one,"

"And what of your daughter?" Hooper looked up, surprised and somewhat confused.

"What's that?"

"If…" Sherlock stopped then, choosing his words carefully. "If she were to…that is she is very brilliant, she is important to a very large case that I am working on, if she were to come along with me…on my walks for evidence…a larger 'pot' shall we say, she would continue her education, and…er…grow…as it were. Her mind, not…obviously, she's full grown as an adult."

"Yes and pretty too," Hooper added with a chuckle. "I expect you're asking me permission if my grown daughter may accompany you on a rather dangerous case." Sherlock nodded. "Very dangerous indeed, eh?" Another nod. "Probably putting her life in danger, as well as yours." Sherlock said nothing. "Mister Holmes, there is something you should know about my daughter," he seated himself with a grunt, gesturing to the chair across the desk. Sherlock sat, waiting for the old man to continue: "She's an adult, past the age of twenty-one, and while the world seems to think she still needs my permission, I happen to think the opposite. I'm of the opinion that any woman who puts up with several years of higher education in a predominantly male field and succeeds doesn't need the permission of a gentleman to do as she likes, so long as she is, ultimately, kept safe."

Sherlock blinked, taking in what Mr. Hooper had said. Before he could thank him, Hooper drew breath again: "And while we are on the subject of permission, you have my blessing, whenever the time comes." Now Sherlock frowned. Hooper only nodded. "It's too soon, of course, but I've done my own hunting, Mister Holmes. Do you know what I've learned about you?" he didn't give him time to answer. "I've learned you're a decent sort of fellow, had a run of trouble, who hasn't? But you've a good heart, a bit mad, but then, a little madness is good for us now and then, isn't it?" Sherlock did not know what else to say, so he reached across the desk, shaking Mr. Hooper's hand.

"I can say, in all honesty Mr. Hooper, that it will be dangerous," Sherlock said, still holding onto the gentleman's hand. "But I will do everything in my power to keep her safe." Hooper nodded, quite solemn, though his eyes twinkled.

"Then there is nothing more to say between us."

Molly saw Sherlock to the door, Hooper was within earshot, and so she did not feel so uncomfortable, being alone in the foyer with Sherlock. His hand lingered by hers, and he looked suddenly shy.

"If you like, there is a case I should like to take you on, while the Ripper case is on hold."

"It could start up again any day now," she said.

"It could, but in the meantime I must keep busy, and Watson is often busy now with patients and his wife. I also should like your assistance again at my laboratory at Baker Street. You have a head for chemistry and solvents."

"If I could be of any help," she murmured at last, quite pleased. "If you think I'm needed, then I shall be glad to accompany you."

"Dear Miss Hooper, you are always needed." She flushed then, glancing at the doorway to the drawing room, the firelight flickering on the far wall. "Your father gave me permission tonight," he said quietly. She turned back to him, surprised.  
"For what?" she asked, barely above a whisper. Sherlock bent, gently pressing her cheek. Eyes wide, she stared back at the consulting detective. He placed his hat on his head, touching the brim. "I shall come for you tomorrow at Barts, everything will be arranged for you to take a half-day."

"How?"

"Mycroft," was all he said. He called goodnight, and she waited until he was in a cab and well on his way before shutting the door and locking it.

 **Next day, St. Barts Mortuary**

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked upon arrival. He came around the body, brushing her cheek with the gentlest of kisses, and then admired the blush that filled her cheeks as she smiled back at him, unable to do anything about it as her hands were occupied in closing up a corpse.

"No, two heart failures, and one failed kidney," she said.

"No suicides?"

"Afraid not," Molly was used to Holmes' odd questions. "And before you ask," she said, just as he opened his mouth again. "No murders and nothing to do with Jack the Ripper."

"Then if there is nothing interesting for me to look at, I shall do what Mary Watson asked and deliver this to you," he removed from his pocket an envelope. "It's in three weeks time, plenty of time for you to find a suitable gown." Seeing he expected her to open it then, she finished sewing up the body, snipped the thread and tugged off her gloves. Taking the invitation from his outstretched hand, she opened it and quickly scanned its contents.

"I don't know this person," she said, looking back to the consulting detective. "Besides, this says it's for you."

"I know them," he clarified. "And it says I may bring a guest. You have not attended any balls yet, and I am loath to attend this on my own, especially as a third-wheel to the Watson's, dearly as I appreciate their friendship."

"Mister Holmes, if we appear at this ball together, people will make the assumption we are courting." They had only just agreed to begin courting, Molly was unsure if he would wish for so many to know so soon.

"I expect so," he said, nudging at a bit of unseen grit with the toe of his shoe. Finally he looked up to meet her gaze. "If…it is acceptable to you, I should have no trouble in their assuming anything of the kind about us…I…should even go so far as to say I would welcome it." Molly Hooper blushed, smiled, and nodded. Sherlock glanced at the corpse still on the table. "Are you finished with him?"

"Yes, paperwork just has to be filed, and he needs to be put back in his box, but after that, I'm all yours…er- not…that is…I am free to assist you." Sherlock smirked, amused at her so suddenly flustered.

Molly was glad to spend the day with Sherlock, glad that he found her interesting enough to court (good heavens!) and that he thought her helpful on his work of the day. This particular day he was investigating a man who had disappeared from a train, and no one knew what exactly happened to him. It turned out to be a hoax, and Sherlock was left quite upset and bored of the whole matter. Molly had seen him upset before; in fact she was quite used to it now, though she was not so used to his shouting. He apologized after, upset he'd disturbed her. The Watson's had been invited to dinner, and Sherlock extended the invitation to Molly and offered to send a carriage for her father. Molly declined, and so Sherlock insisted on seeing her home.

"May I ask you something?"

"You will anyway," she smiled up at him, teasing.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?" he asked. She frowned, unsure of what he meant. "I mean, am I pursuing you to no end?" she looked so astonished that he sat back, staring straight ahead out of the carriage. "You…do not seem eager about our courtship…you questioned whether I wanted other people to know of us so soon…and…you always seem surprised when I press your hand or cheek."

"Well…" she turned red again. "I- Sherlock you must know there's a great difference in us!" He looked confusedly at her.

"No?"

"Class alone," she said. "And…well…I have been described as very plain and rather little, I'm not often noticed," she shrugged. "You, on the other hand, are very noticeable; you're someone who matters a great deal to people,"

"You matter," he insisted.

"I've never mattered to anyone before but my father, and it's quite different when it's someone related to you," she excused. "If I seem surprised when you…romance me…it is because it is still so new. We have known each other scarcely four weeks and you've made romantic overtures, well…as romantic as _you_ can make them, asked my father's permission, and taken me on your cases." He was silent for a moment.

"Too fast?" She slipped her hand in his.

"Give me time to adjust to someone showing so much affection to me. I shouldn't like to be looked at as indecent. I should like to savor this time together. I want to _know_ you, Sherlock Holmes, inside and out as well as you knew me when you first deduced me."

"I don't know _everything_ about you," he sniffed. "I should rather you tell me something I don't know." The carraige came to a stop, and they saw they had arrived at her home. Under the cover of the cab, she leaned forward, tenderly pressing his cheek.

"I think if you continue as you are…there is a very good chance I shall be in love with you," she said, and stepped down from the cab, hurrying up the steps and inside. Sherlock touched his cheek, the feeling of Molly's warm mouth pressed against his cheek was gone, but the memory of it…oh…how very sweet!

"Address, sir?" Suddenly realizing the driver had asked him twice now for a direction, Sherlock called up his home address, settling back against the seat. Her reaction brought him such joy, such peace of mind that he did not see the rest of London passing by the carriage as he made his way home. An underlying fear of 'what if' whispered in the back of his mind, what if she grew bored with him, or decided she did not fancy a consulting detective after all. What then? What if she sought her happiness elsewhere? The selfish part of him declared that she should only love him and no one else, but the rational part knew, when it came to Molly Hooper, if her happiness was sought in the arms of another man, Sherlock would step aside, only for her sake. The carraige came to a stop, and as Sherlock paid the man and stepped down, he came to a startling realization:

He no longer admired Molly Hooper.

He loved her.

 **Ladies' Dress Shop, London**

"I think you ought to get something French," Mary said, setting aside her muff and purse. "These balls are terribly big to-dos, you'll want to look smart, especially on Sherlock's arm. Clothes make the man, just think what they'll do for a woman."

"Empty her pocket book?" Molly quipped dryly. Mary knew what she was about, and having flipped through the booklet of fashion plates, motioned one of the sales girls over.

"We would like to see this one," she nodded to Molly at her side. "She'll be measured as well, so you can make the needed adjustments. The woman nodded and returned in a little while with a pale green silk satin gown, silver threads and sequins embroidered over it. The train of the gown was gold silk brocade with a leaf pattern. It was so deliciously modern and French and elegant that Molly couldn't speak for a moment. She looked at Mary, wordlessly, eyes wide, and Mary nudged her. "Go on then, they'll pin it to you and see how it fits."

The actual process of trying on the gown was more work than Molly cared to admit, and was glad she did not have to tend her wardrobe so fastidiously as some women did. The dress was fitted to her, pinned and gathered in places it gapped until it looked right. Stepping out into the private show room, Molly waited as a seamstress hurried around her, arranging the train and fixing the sleeves.

"Well? Will I do?"

"Oh…" Mary sighed. Standing, she smiled, quite happily at Molly. "If you don't say yes and buy it this instant I'll make you ride my bicycle home every day from Barts for an entire week!" Molly turned to look at herself in the mirror. She did admit to herself she felt beautiful, that she could be worthy of a man like Sherlock Holmes in such a gown.

"Do you think he'll like it?"

"Dear girl," Mary smiled. "I'm afraid he will be in danger of falling even more in love with you, if that is at all possible." She waited for the seamstress to depart before lowering her voice. "And I am afraid, Molly, it will mean he'll want to kiss you. Quite a bit too." Molly flushed, laughing with Mary. It was with that in mind, that Molly Hooper decided to buy the gown. Heaven help her, but if Sherlock Holmes dared kiss her on the mouth, she just might kiss him back.


	4. Chapter 4

"Father, where is Mrs. Kelly?" Mr. Hooper looked up to see his daughter standing in the doorway of his study, hands on her hips.

"Isn't she in the kitchen?"

"No!" Hooper chuckled.

"I expect lunch will be a little late then, won't it?"

"Nonsense, I can cut sandwiches, and I'm perfectly able to make tea, but I think I should send a note, perhaps she's ill, this is the third time this week alone she's not come in!" Molly said.

"Very well, send a basket of something if she is," Mr. Hooper called after his daughter and she answered that she would.

It was not the first time the cook had gone missing more than twice in a week, and Molly found herself disappointed in the woman. She was young, scarcely twenty-five, but her talent for cookery was very good, though Molly disparaged of her at times. Because she did not board at the Hooper's, she often found her own lodgings, and from what Molly understood, it was often in less-than-savory neighborhoods, and the man she took up with was by no means a noble character. When Molly came down to the kitchen, the maid, Ellen, was there, cutting sandwiches.

"Thank you," Molly said, upon seeing the maid taking on the extra work. "I'll see to that, you needn't add to your workload."

"I've already a good deal," the maid said, cautiously. Her annoyance at the lack of the cook did not go unnoticed, and Molly could not fault her for saying what she did. Molly paused in cutting up the cold meats, thinking of the three story house. The house did not have a plethora of guest rooms, but twelve rooms in one house was a lot for one maid.

"How long, without Mrs. Kelly here, does it take for you to finish the housework?"

"All day," Ellen said. "Mrs. Kelly is usually here early to get breakfast, we live near each other, or did, so I knew when she was on her way or not, we used to walk together to work, I didn't see her the past week, so I suppose she lost her flat and had to find a new one. When she's not here, I try and get everything set for Mr. Hooper, I know you don't usually take breakfast or lunch here, but I don't like the gentleman to go without. I'm not a cook, but I know how to fix eggs and sandwiches, porridge if he asks for it. Tea is no bother, but I'm not a chef, I can't fix dinner, not with all the work I must take care of!" Ellen drew breath at the end of her speech, clearly frustrated.

"I was going to send a note," Molly said slowly. "I think I might call on her instead, and see what she has been up to for her to miss work so often."

"Oh no, Miss," Ellen pleaded. "It's not fit for you, down in Whitechapel."

"I work in a morgue, Ellen," Molly laughed. "I'm used to things that are not 'fit for ladies to see'. Besides, I'm not a lady, not really, here, if you'll finish this, I'll go and fetch my hat and bag. Tell father I'm going out, if he asks where, tell him to see Mrs. Kelly, and I will be taking Mr. Holmes with me, so I shan't be unaccompanied."

"Yes Miss," Ellen murmured.

"Where is she living now, do you know?"

"Just up the road from where she was, across from a pub I don't remember which though, you'll have to ask."

"Thank you." She paused at the door then. "I'll see if father won't mind getting another maid, to help you in the meantime." Ellen smiled her thanks, relieved.

 **221b Baker Street**

Sherlock received Molly's note just as she was arriving.

"The mystery of the missing chef, eh?" he asked, shrugging out of his smoking jacket and pulling on his coat.

"I'd rather not go alone, I'm just going to see why she isn't in for work, it's the third time, and poor Ellen is left alone with all her work, add to it that she feels she must make father his lunch and tea if Mrs. Kelly isn't there."

"Hm. Where did you say she lives?"

"Up a street from where she used to live on Crofton road, which would be Dorset street. Ellen said she's across from a pub but she wasn't sure which one."

"Hmm." Sherlock placed his hat on his head, thinking. "There's only three pubs in the neighborhood it shouldn't be too difficult. Shall we?"

It took only a little inquiring and a description of Mrs. Kelly before they found where she lived, off Dorset street in Miller's Court, across from a pub.

"Red hair? Oh yes," the man behind the bar nodded. "She was here last night; she lives across the way in the ground flat." He pointed through the window to the squalid building. "She's here pretty regular, don't know her name, but she likes her gin pretty well. I thought she was a street walker," the bartender said. "Beg your pardon, ma'am."

"What makes you think she was a prostitute?" Molly asked, quite shocked. Why on earth would Mrs. Kelly, paid a good wage, resort to walking the streets at night?

"I seen her with a few men from time to time, awful flirty, cash was exchanged and she'd…em…bring 'em around the back alley," the bartender jerked his thumb towards the back door. "She's been doing it pretty regular lately."

"Was she drunk last night?" Sherlock asked. The bartender nodded.

"Pretty well into her cups I'd say. Not as bad as some nights. I'll sell her the liquor but I won't put her upstairs, she and that man she goes around with drink their rent away. No one likes to put them up really." Molly looked to Sherlock, surprised.

Stepping out onto the street, Molly tugged her gloves on; Sherlock looked at the pub across the way.

"Shall we wake her up?"

"No," Molly shook her head. "I'll notify her when she comes in tomorrow that she will have to look for employment elsewhere." They started for the main road, hurrying through the crowds. "So she was prostituting herself for extra money?"

"Mm, after she drinks away her pay, she realizes she's stuck for rent money and needs cash fast," Sherlock nodded. "What can a woman sell the quickest, and over and over but herself?"

"Heaven help her," Molly sighed. "I am shocked she's been keeping at it, with all the Jack the Ripper talk going on."

"There hasn't been news in two weeks," Sherlock said, low. "People hope he's been secretly caught and brought to an asylum, most people become comfortable again after a little time has passed and stop taking precautions. I should, however, tell your maid she might find lodging closer to the house, or even in the attic."

"I had thought of that," Molly said. "Ellen might appreciate that. She could stay up on the third floor, we never have guests and besides the attic is in no condition for anyone to live there."

"I shall make inquiries for a new cook to be found," Sherlock said. "And you might tell whomever you hire for an under maid that her lodgings would be in-house as well."

"How did you-" Molly shook her head, not even bothering to finish the question. Of course Sherlock would deduce her wanting to look for another maid. "Have you got your suit for the ball?"

"Indeed. Mary told me you have found something suitable as well." Molly smiled, pink.

"Yes, and I shan't say anymore, or else you'll know what it is."

"Something french," Sherlock declared. Molly looked at him, annoyed. Seeing her frown, he held back the rest of his deduction he so dearly wanted to say. "Not another word," he promised.

"I shall have to punish you otherwise," she said boldly, stepping up to the sidewalk. He looked down at her, arm still raised for a cab. She looked up, surprised to see his expression had gone blank, he blinked twice, as if he couldn't quite get his thoughts together. "Sherlock?" she tugged his sleeve.

"Oh, yes," a cab had stopped and so he opened the front, helping her in. "221b Baker Street."

The afternoon was spent at Baker street, Molly helping Sherlock with his experiments and working on the Jack the Ripper spiders web on the far wall. Sherlock was pleased that with each passing day, Molly proved more relaxed around him, and quite at home in 221b. Mrs. Hudson liked the pathologist very much, and often said it was lovely to have another woman around the house so often. It was late by the time Molly at last looked at the clock and realized it was almost dinner.

"I should be getting back, she fumbled with the gloves, turning for the curtained doorway to the parlor. "Father will be expecting me, and I don't like to leave Ellen to try and get dinner by herself." She felt Sherlock tug at the ties of her smock, and turned, smiling her thanks before slipping out of it and hanging it on the hook. "I'd invite you, but I don't know what we're going to make."

"I'm not hungry anyway, I want to finish this experiment…" he looked over at the spiders web on the wall, sighing at the sight of it. Evidence and theories swam in his head, but it didn't get him any closer to who the murderer was.

"I know it's frustrating," her warm hand on his cheek brought him back to the present. "If you're bored, come over; promise me you won't do anything foolish." He saw her look to the mantel where a plain wooden box sat. Sherlock recalled the day she had discovered it and set it before him. He still felt the shame of her discovery, that he had a dreadful weakness in a drug. He had not taken it since before the case of Jack the Ripper had opened. It kept him occupied, but as information trickled to a stand-still, he felt himself look at the box on the mantel longer and longer. She squeezed his arm and he looked down, seeing both her hands covering his.

"I shan't do anything. Not tonight. There is too much to do." Knowing that Molly knew of his weakness, and she minded very much that he would willingly go to it, it helped him to keep clean, at least for now. She pressed his cheek at the door before he followed her out to hail a cab for her.

 **Hooper residence**

"I'm home!" Molly called.

"Hello!" her father called from the study. Taking off her things, she set them on the bench in the foyer, hurrying through.

"I'm sorry I'm so late, experiments," she bent and kissed her father's head. "I'll see about finding something for dinner, also, I had a thought, Ellen ought to lodge here, shouldn't she? I don't like the idea of her going back and forth to Whitechapel, and at such hours."

"If you think so," Mr. Hooper nodded. "Yes of course, did you see Mrs. Kelly?"

"Yes, well, no, I found where she lives though." Molly sat on the stool at his feet. "Father I think we must replace her."

He looked surprised. "As bad as that?" He asked.

"Very much so," she nodded. "I won't tell you what we found when we made inquiries, but suffice to say when she comes in tomorrow, I'll be giving her notice. Sherlock says he will find us another cook, and in the meantime, we'll make do with what I can make. Will you put together an envelope for Mrs. Kelly? Just the days she's come in this week, it should be about seven shillings."

"We've gotten by before," Mr. Hooper chortled, getting to his feet, he went to his desk where the money box was, counting out what was owed and placing it in an envelope. "I suppose we can survive a few weeks on your cooking." She nudged him playfully and he laughed. "I'm quite at my leisure, shall I write a letter of reference for Mrs. Kelly?" Molly chewed her bottom lip.

"Well…I…" she stopped then, quite unsure. She did pity the woman, but Mrs. Kelly had done this to herself. She drank away her money, and put herself in the predicament she was in. "I don't know yet, I'll let you know in the morning." Getting to her feet, she patted her father's shoulder, heading down to the kitchen.

"Ellen, I'm sorry I'm so late, are there any groceries or- oh!" she was surprised to see at one end of the table, the housemaid, hands on her hips, glaring down the other end, where Mrs. Kelly stood, still in her hat and gloves. "Mrs. Kelly, where on earth have you been?!" Molly demanded, more surprised to see the cook than angry.

"I was sick this morning," was all the young woman could say.

"Sick, huh, drunk more like," Ellen snapped. "Two days come in late, three whole days you didn't even come in! I've had to cover for you because you drank too much, you and that no good fish porter-"

"Ellen, please," Molly stepped into the kitchen, shutting the door partway. "My father doesn't know of Mrs. Kelly's drinking, I should like to keep it that way." Ellen bowed her head, then, understanding, though still glaring at Mrs. Kelly. Molly turned to the cook. "Well. You are here now, do you have anything to say for yourself?" Mrs. Kelly opened her mouth, and then shut it, looking at the ground. Finally, she drew breath:

"I'm sorry I've been late. My husband-" Ellen rolled her eyes, scoffing. "-and I are going through a rather difficult turn."

"I see." Molly nodded, coming around the table. "What problems? With the law?"

"No Miss,"

"With family?"

"No-o-o…"

"Then what? Surely it cannot be money. We pay a more than fair wage, two pounds more than you would make at a hotel."

"Yes…I- well it's just that we've been…em…helping a friend, she's down on her luck you see…her husband beats were terribly and we've been helping her get away-"

"Mrs. Kelly…" Molly said, her tone warning. Mary Kelly stopped, looking up at Molly. "I've made my own inquiries, you see, and I've spoken to someone today, who knows you very well." The cook seemed to tremble. "I don't blame people for their problems, but I do ask that they answer for them." She turned to Ellen. "Please go up to my father and get the envelope of money for Mrs. Kelly." Ellen glanced between the cook and her mistress before hurrying upstairs.

"I'll need a reference," Mary Kelly said, more demanded. Her voice was hungry and raw, quite afraid.

"Mrs. Kelly, what would I put in the reference?" Molly asked. "You've lied to us, many times! It's been revealed to me you drink more than anyone should consume, and often peddle yourself to make up the rent! You've lied to me, and my father, and missed work repeatedly without any sort of note or excuse."

"You know what I'll have to do, if I don't get a reference?" Mary Kelly asked, half-sobbing. "I'll have to walk the streets, and with that murderer out, I'll be killed!"

"Mrs. Kelly, you knew all this, and have gone out regardless," Molly said firmly. "You knew the facts and went ahead. I am sure you will find work, I hope work that does not require you to endanger your life. I cannot write a falsehood though, and allow you to continue abusing people's good natures." Ellen returned with the pay envelope, handing it to Molly. She looked in it, counting the money. After a moment, she reached into her own pocket, fishing out whatever money was there, and slipped it into the envelope, counting it once more. "There a guinea altogether, seven shillings for the two days you've come in this week, and fourteen shillings of my own, that's what I have. Hopefully you will put it towards finding respectable work." She held out the envelope, and Mary Kelly snatched it, gripping the paper.

"Go on then," she grumbled. "See if I care, send me to my death, just you wait, you'll blame yourself, when it happens, you drove me to this, and it will be your fault!"

"You knew what the consequences would be," Molly replied evenly. "I will ask you to leave now, before you upset yourself further." Mary Kelly glared at them, hands shaking, she hurried from the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Ellen and Molly watched her through the windows as she ran up the back stairs and up to the street. "Lock the door, Ellen, and then help me fix something for supper." Ellen obeyed, turning to see Molly sink into the chair at the table. "Ellen, father and I would like for you to take your lodgings here from now on," she looked up to the maid, eyes tired. "Mr. Holmes seems to think it would be a good idea for you, and the other maid and cook, when we get them, to stay out of Whitechapel, until the Ripper is caught." Ellen nodded slowly.

"Yes Miss." She fiddled with her apron. "Has…has anything new turned up Miss?"

"No, Ellen," Molly stood, feeling the tension in her shoulders again. "Now, let's see what we can fix for dinner."

Mary Kelly made her way through the cold streets of London, up to Whitechapel. It had been weeks since the Ripper had found a victim, but she still kept looking over her shoulder, minding the people around her, one hand firmly in her pocket, gripping the envelope of money. She hurried past the pub on Miller's Court, unlocking the door to the shared flat.

"Joe, Joe!" Joe Barnett turned from where he sat by the window.

"You're late,"

"I know," she shut the door behind her. "Here, got my pay." She tossed him the envelope and he reached inside, counting it out.

"A guinea!" he crowed. "That's quite a nice sight!"

"Yeah, enjoy it, it's the last we'll be seeing." He frowned up at her.

"What?"

"Discharged today, no reference," she slouched in her chair, arms folded across her waist.

"Geeze…" Joe looked at the envelope, then back at her. He smiled, sloppy, and she knew he'd been drinking already. "Well…let's not worry tonight, eh? Let's go to the pub, come on. I've had a day, and you look like you could use a stiff one. We deserve a good hurrah." She smiled at him, letting him pull her to her feet. With a toss of her red hair, she followed him out the door, laughing into the cold October night.


	5. Chapter 5

"Aren't you glad you've come to ours to get read for the ball?" Mary Watson, half dressed, swished across the guest room. Molly, currently being laced into her corset by Mary's petit maid merely smiled over her shoulder nervously.

"Well, it's less lonely, I'll say that."

"You aren't nervous are you?" Mary sat down to adjust her stockings.

"Well…I shouldn't be."

"I'd warrant your nerves stem from the knowledge that a certain consulting detective who is courting you will be there."

"I don't want to embarrass him," Molly confessed.

"You won't," Mary soothed. "He adores you. I've never seen him take to anyone really, excepting John, and that's different."

"He likes you," Molly said.

"He doesn't want to marry me," Mary laughed. "Or John for that matter!"

There was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Who do you think?" the voice on the other side retorted.

"No boys allowed!" Mary called, winking at Molly. "Especially husbands!"

"Well can my arm come in, it's bearing gifts for a certain specialist registrar." Mary nearly flew across the room, hand on the door, she waited for Molly to close her dressing gown.

"A very expensive looking box of chocolates, a bouquet of flowers, and, if I am not mistaken, a velvet box one would put jewelry in," Watson said, entering with his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes you silly man," Mary laughed, kissing him. "We're decent."

"The flowers are from me, for you," he said, handing his wife the bouquet, and her eyes sparkled in delight. "The rest is for Miss Hooper,"

"Oh…my…" She took the parcels, slipping the note out from under the ribbon.

" _Dearest Molly,_

 _The jewelry was planned, I hope it is to your liking, please don't say it is too much, it is hardly what it should be, but again, we did agree to go at a pace that shan't shock the nations, or my brother. The chocolates were given to me at the behest of my sister in-law to get them away from my brother. I hope they are also to your liking, most especially if it means getting them out from under my brother's nose._

 _Until tonight. - SH"_

"Well go on, what's it say? Does it have little hearts dotted over the 'i's?" Mary teased, and Molly blushed.

"No," she laughed. "But the chocolates are for everyone,"

"Oh," John looked pleased, reaching for the box but Mary slapped his hand out of the way.

"Pregnant women and single ladies first, there will be some for you, but later, we have to finish getting ready-" she said all this, pushing him out the door.

"Wait, I forgot something," John insisted, half in the door.

"What?" He bent, kissing her gently.

"That. Don't be too long."

"There, now that he's gone-"

"As if you wanted him to go," Molly interrupted her, and it was Mary's turn to blush.

"Yes well…" Mary smiled. "Go on then, open up your present, and I just might let you wear some of my John's roses in your pretty hair so we'll match. Nelly, is she nearly ready?"

"Yes Mrs. Watson." Molly sat at the vanity so that the maid could finish fixing her hair. Carefully, she opened the velvet box, Mary and Nelly peering over her shoulder. Both gasped behind her, and Molly stared, wide-eyed. Nestled in the box sat a beautiful tortoise shell comb, diamonds, tiny pearls and gold filigree decorating it.

"I thought extravagant gifts of jewelry and apparel weren't given until after the engagement?" Mary finally asked, though her tone was light.

"Sherlock never was one to follow the rules specifically, and I'm vain enough to ignore it," Molly said with a breathless laugh. "Put it on, Nelly, before I fall to pieces!" the maid took the comb from the velvet lined case, sliding it in place.

"Oh Miss…you look like a fashion plate!"

"A half-dressed fashion plate," Mary nodded. "We must fly! It's nearly eight!"

 **Downstairs**

"Brandy?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need to calm my nerves."

"Oh good," John nodded, taking down two glasses anyway. "Here,"

"I said I don't want any- this isn't brandy."

"It's whisky."

"Why are you giving me strong liquor?"

"No reason, just hold it, it makes you look normal."

"Molly wouldn't court me if I were 'normal'," Sherlock smirked.

"That's true, the pair of you…" John shook his head, taking a sip of his drink. "Going out together, no chaperone, and discussing the most horrific case London has ever had to deal with as if it were the weather."

"Not all social constructs are necessary."

"A lot of them are," John said warningly. "And I don't think Mr. Hooper would approve of you courting his daughter if any scandal became attached to her name due to your indiscretion."

"We are always discreet," Sherlock waved, and then cursed under his breath, forgetting he held the whisky, barely catching it before it slopped out of the glass.

"Hold onto your hats, we're coming down," Mary called down the stairs. John moved forward, while Sherlock peered over the stairway from where he stood. Mary came down first, all in green brocade silk, gold and silver embroidery ran up and down the front and bodice and sleeves, catching the lamplight. In her golden hair she wore three of the roses John had presented to her, and a diamond clip he'd presented her on their first anniversary.

"Absolutely beautiful," John murmured, kissing her reverently. "You'll put me to shame,"

"Not at all," she took his hands, kissing him once more. Both turned back to the stairway, to the figure lingering at the top of the stairs. "Come down, Molly, at least let him know it was worth the wait!"

Timidly, Molly began down the stairs. Mary and John stepped aside, and she found herself looking with anticipation for Sherlock. He seemed frozen in place, and that alone made her blush. Carefully, she touched the back of her hair, making sure it was in place.

"Doesn't she look lovely, Sherlock?" Mary asked, ignoring the nudge from her husband.

"Lovely," Sherlock murmured. Molly came to stand before him, eyes sparkling up at him.

"I know you hate dancing, Mister Holmes, but I'm afraid I must insist on at least four from you." His mischievous grin was back, and his eyes twinkled back at her.

"Only four?"

"At the very least,"

"Least should be six, the most should be twelve."

"Twelve!" Molly exclaimed.

"Yes. The number of dances tonight," he said. "Did you think I intended to share you?" She turned to take her wrap from the maid, and he downed the rest of the un-spilled whisky, thrusting the glass at John. "Shut up Watson," he muttered, turning to help Molly with her wrap.

A carriage was waiting for them when they stepped outside.

"Isn't that your brother's carriage?" Mary asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking Molly by the arm.

"Unfortunately,"

"It was nice of him to send it," Molly said.

"Hm," Sherlock muttered, but said nothing else, helping Molly and then Mary in, waiting for John to step in after.

"Coming, or are you going to jog alongside the coach?" Watson asked, leaning over.

"Just wondering if Mycroft left a spy on top to listen in," Sherlock said, finally climbing and sitting beside Molly.

"Will he be there tonight, do you think?"

"Naturally," Sherlock answered. "Why?" Molly shrugged.

"I'd like to meet someone of your family, if you must know," she glanced across the carraige. John and Mary were engrossed in whatever they were discussing, so Molly took Sherlock's hand, squeezing gently. "I'd like to meet the people you care most about."

"You've met most of them," he answered, gesturing across the carraige. "And Mrs. Hudson."

"But not your mother or father, or your brother."

"I suppose you must eventually," he sighed dramatically, but his eyes twinkled at her.

 **Lamson-Scribner's**

"You didn't tell me it would be such a big to-do," Molly said, wide-eyed at the foyer full of people. The Lamson-Scribner's were hosting, and some of the Royal Family was in attendance. The house sat just outside of London, and was twice the size of St. Bart's Hospital.

"Don't worry, you look marvelous," Sherlock tucked her arm into his, lacing their fingers together. "Never mind what the gossips say."

"They're staring," She murmured, reaching up to check her hair. The group of women lingering by the doorway, some new to society, others in the game too long, all turned when they came in, eyes resting on the consulting detective.

"Because they never expected me to come with a woman on my arm," he said quietly. "They have been hoping I'd take one of their daughters. The brother of Mycroft Holmes does wonders for ones place in society, you know."

"What does your brother do?" Molly asked, letting a footman take her wrap. Sherlock handed over his hat, gloves and overcoat.

"It's a minor position in the government, I assure you." Both turned at the sound of someone behind them.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said. The thin man smiled in a way Molly could only describe as 'secretive'.

"It's rude not to make proper introductions, Sherlock," Mycroft said. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

"Molly Hooper, may I introduce my brother, Lord Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft, Miss Hooper, my…" here he paused, unsure of how to continue. If he had his way, he'd have done with it and say 'fiancée', just to see the look on Mycroft's face, but that was hardly a good reason, knowing Molly would be absolutely mortified. Molly saw his hesitation and stepped forward,

"Very dear friend," she finished, holding out her hand. Mycroft smiled, bowing to her curtsy and pressed the back of her fingers. "I'm pleased to meet you at last, Lord Holmes."

"A very close friend indeed, Miss Hooper, and an honor to meet you at last. Mummy and Father have been wondering when you and your father would come for dinner."

"We should be honored whenever it is convenient Lord Holmes."

"I shall tell mother to send a note," Mycroft promised. A beautiful woman came to stand beside him then, touching his arm, and he turned slightly. "My wife," he said, stepping back slightly. "Miss Hooper may I present Lady Anthea Holmes,"

"I'm so pleased to finally meet you," the woman said, shaking Molly's hand, and she felt relief, knowing this woman was kind and welcoming. "We've heard so much about you."

"Have you?" Molly turned from Sherlock to Mycroft, finally to Anthea. "Heavens-"

"Nothing but good, you're making terrific headway in this awful business in the East End, aren't you?"

"Well…some," Molly nodded. "I do what I can,"

"Nonsense, your work is half the job," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," Mycroft motioned for him to leave the women for a moment. Anthea saw the pathologist begin to fidget nervously.

"Is this your first ball in London?" she asked, and Molly nodded.

"I'm afraid it shows, and-" she glanced at the group of women still watching them from the corner. "I don't think I've made a good impression."

"Nonsense!" Anthea took her by the arm. "Sherlock's told me everything," she spoke low. "He's rather keen on you, I hope you know, never mind what anyone else thinks, they're just upset they didn't have what it takes to snap him up."

"I think he didn't want to be 'snapped up' before," Molly said with a nervous laugh and Anthea nodded.

"True enough. So what a spectacularly wonderful woman you must be!" Anthea declared. Molly didn't know what to say to that, bowing her head as she blushed.

"I'm to take dinner very soon, father and I, with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes-"

"Lord and Lady," Anthea corrected her softly.

"Oh! I didn't know," Molly murmured, quite embarrassed.

"Hardly anyone does, Lord Holmes the senior isn't an active member in the House, he likes the country, well, he and Lady Holmes."

"Sherlock isn't a Lord," Molly said, realizing. "Is that odd?"

"No," Anthea shook her head. "Not for him, as I'm sure you know by now. He didn't want anything to do with it," Anthea shrugged.

Mary and John Watson were announced and both women turned. John saw Sherlock and Mycroft and leaving Mary with the girls, went to join them.

"There you are," Mary said and Anthea offered her cheek, kissing Mary's in turn. "At last, someone civilized to talk to," they glanced again at the group of women in the corner, drawing Anthea and Molly closer. "Absolute vultures, all of them, speaking ill of everything but what they approve of, don't pay them any mind," she said it to both of them, but was looking to Molly.

"Miss Hooper," Lord Holmes touched her arm. She turned to see the crowd behind her hushed, parted like Moses at the Red Sea. Eyes wide, she felt herself sinking low, Mary and Anthea behind her copying as they backed out of the way. "May I present Doctor Molly Hooper, Your Royal Highness, Doctor Hooper, His Royal Highness Prince George the Fifth." he turned to the young monarch, gesturing to Molly. "Miss Hooper is a brilliant doctor at St. Bartholomew's, your Royal Highness." The prince bowed, a polite smile upon his face.

"I am to open the evening's festivities, I wonder Miss Hooper if you would do me the honor of the first waltz."

Molly was sure she answered clearly, or at least she hoped she did. It didn't matter, Prince George had taken her arm, guiding her through the crowds. As they passed a footman, she was aware she motioned for him to hand her the train of her gown.

The Prince looked to the maestro, who looked back, waiting for the nod to begin. In a moment, she was falling in step with the young Prince of England, and all eyes of London were on her.

"I understand you are engaged to Lord Holmes younger brother," he said pleasantly after a moment.

"Yes," she answered, still breathless. "Or nearly."

"Do see he holds to his word," Prince George answered cheerfully. "My sister thinks it's terrific, what you do."

"Your sister?" Molly questioned, surprised the Princess knew who she was, then realized transcripts of her interview with Scotland Yard regarding her autopsies of the Ripper case had been printed in the London Times. "I- did not know the Royal Family read so much about the case in Whitechapel."

"Oh we get them all," he shrugged. Couples began to fill the dance floor, and Molly was glad. She saw out of the corner of her eye Sherlock leading Anthea out to the floor, and was glad. "Father doesn't like the girls to read the horrible stuff," the young prince went on. "But then so much of it is horrible, and they've a right to know."

"Yes," Molly nodded. "We all live in London, and one should be aware of the dangers, no matter who we are. I think it's important, especially for women to be aware." The Prince chuckled then, as if impressed.

"My word you give your opinion freely," he said. "It's refreshing, truly." The dance was coming to an end, and he guided her along with the other couples. "Mister Holmes has truly found a treasure in you, Miss Hooper." The dance ended with Molly blushing, murmuring her thanks. "A pleasure, Miss Hooper, I look forward to reading more of your work in this case." She deeply curtsied before backing away and the Prince turned away to speak with someone else. Sherlock was waiting for her, and Mycroft as well.

"That should quiet things down for now," Mycroft said and smiled politely to Molly. "I shall send a note tomorrow, Miss Hooper, my wife is rather taken with you, and wishes to meet for tea," he bowed slightly before disappearing into the crowds.

"Settle things down?" Molly asked, turning to Sherlock.

"Apparently there's some fuss, regarding your position at St. Barts," he said, low.

"What?"

"Nothing to worry about," he soothed. "Please don't worry. Mycroft was clever," he admitted. "Having the Prince open the ball with you. It shows the Royal Family is supportive of your work."

"You mean that I'm a woman in a man's position," she clarified.

"Yes."

"Well," she didn't know what to say at first. The women still looked at her as if she had spit on them. "Well, I'm not here to win their approval," Molly said, nodding behind her to the crowds. "I'm here for yours."

"My dear woman," Sherlock kissed her hands. "You already have it." He led her to the floor again, joining the other couples.

Molly, to Sherlock's disappointment, did not dance every single dance of the first set with him.

"It's not seemly," she cautioned him, and he grudgingly agreed, though he was pleased to take three of the first six with her. John, Mycroft and Prince George shared the other three. A buffet was served, and the dancing stopped for a little while. The crowds mingled while food was plated.

"Who is that woman?" Mary turned her head to where Molly was looking.

"Who?"

"That one talking with Sherlock, I've never seen her before. He seems to know her." Mary did marvel sometimes at Molly's perceptiveness.

"He does," Mary confirmed. "She is Miss Irene Adler, had he not mentioned her?"

"He did," Molly nodded. "He never said she was beautiful,"

"He didn't think it was important," Mary soothed. "If he told you of her, then he told you what he thought was necessary."

"She stands awfully close to him,"

"A one-sided attraction, I can assure you," Mycroft Holmes was suddenly at Molly's elbow, she turned with a start.

"It hasn't always been though," she said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, surprised. He nodded then.

"Very perceptive of you, Miss Hooper. You would be correct, there was a time my little brother greatly admired Miss Adler for not only her mind but her charms as well. If she had not so thoroughly beaten him at his game, who is to say, perhaps-"

"Mycroft," Mary scolded quietly. "That isn't true; don't fill her head with horror stories, as if Sherlock is always so driven by his ego…we all know it's only half the time." Molly smiled at Mary's joke, but was still looking across the ballroom. She wanted desperately to ask what had happened between Sherlock and Irene Adler, but it wasn't polite. Nails digging through her gloves to her palms, she forced herself to wait until Sherlock guided Miss Adler over to the end of the ballroom, and then cross back to them.

"She seemed friendly," was all Molly said, but Sherlock knew enough to know when she was upset. He tucked her arm in his, patting her hand.

"She wanted what she usually does," Sherlock said.

"And what is that? Molly asked, unable to keep the jealousy from her voice.

"What she cannot have." She looked up to see Sherlock gazing down at her, his eyes serious and gentle and his mouth smiling the tiniest of smiles. "Molly Hooper are you jealous?"

"I…" she glanced around the room, finding the raven-haired woman. "She is very beautiful Sherlock."

"She is," he agreed. "And vain, and selfish, and doesn't often care who gets hurt, so long as she gets what she wants in the end," he said. "What happened between us is long past."

"But she still loves you?"

"No," Sherlock said, he was pointedly ignoring The Woman, knowing she was seeking out his gaze. "She…is attracted to me…perhaps she does love me in her own way, but what I felt for her, that is all past."

"I'm sorry," Molly apologized. "I'm making you uncomfortable."

"I am only uncomfortable that you misunderstand my feelings for her. I did her a service- I saved her life in the West Indies, sometimes she comes to London and wants me to take a case for her, usually it's illegal, and more-often than not she wishes to pay me in…" he paused then, the tips of his ears red.

"Services?" Molly offered. Sherlock almost sighed with relief. There was no beating about the bush with Molly Hooper, and he wondered if anything could truly shock her.

"Hm," he nodded. "You've lost some of your color," he commented. "Shall I fetch you something to drink?"

"Please," she nodded. He set her down on a bench in the conservatory, promising to return. Mycroft came to sit beside her, flipping his coattails out of the way.

"My heavens, Miss Hooper, where have you been hiding? Sherlock's behaving like a gentleman."

"He is a gentleman," Molly said. "In his own right,"

"Do you see nothing but the good in people, Miss Hooper? For your sake, I hope it is not sheer naivety."

"I should hope I'm not naïve, especially in my line of work," Molly answered. "If I choose to see the good in people, it is for my own sanity, or else the world would be a bitter, cynical place to live."

"True enough," he acknowledged then. Molly felt as if she'd succeeded, seeing the elder Holmes genuinely smile at her.

"Thank you, by the way, for what you did earlier this evening."

"I cannot have my little brother's favorite person being picked on at her very first ball," Mycroft shrugged. "You care too much, what these people think." She turned.

"Do I?" she looked at the crowds milling about.

"It's only natural, what with your being new to society. Never fear. Tonight was rather a step in the right direction for you."

"Must I win everyone's approval to marry your brother?" Molly asked, almost tiredly, exhausted at the thought.

"No," he smiled at her. "Just Mummy's."

"Oh." She paled considerably just as Sherlock returned with a glass of champagne.

"What have you done now?" Sherlock asked, exasperated at his brother.

"Nothing at all," Mycroft stood then, giving up his seat to him. "Miss Hooper," he bowed and left. Sherlock handed her the glass.

"You look as if you could use this," he said. "What did he say?"

"Nothing, just, reminded me I've got to win your mother's approval," she smiled faintly over the rim of the glass. "I expect I'd forgotten about it."

"Mummy will adore you." Sherlock seemed absolutely sure of it.

"But what if she doesn't?" Molly pleaded softly. "What if she hates me? Or that she hates what I do? Or that she doesn't approve of father and I coming in to money-"

"Hush," Sherlock covered her hand in his. "Such things aren't so important to my mother or father. She might question your working at Barts, but truly, she wouldn't hold such a thing over you."

"What if she doesn't approve of us?" Molly asked then. Sherlock sat back. He had not considered that. Not that his mother would forbid them of getting married (Sherlock made his own money, so even if he was cut off from his inheritance, he was sure he could keep Molly in a perfectly comfortable lifestyle), but if she disapproved of the marriage, it would make for a very uncomfortable time. Molly would not like family being at odds because of them.

"It won't come to that," he said, and covered her hand in his, squeezing gently. "Molly Hooper I have told you before, I love you, and I want us to share the rest of our lives together."

"Is that a proposal, Mister Holmes?" she asked softly, her tone light. The shine in her eyes was unmistakable, and he was pleased, knowing that it warmed her, the fact that he would not give up on her so easily. He leaned close, mouth just barely to her ear.

"Not yet, Miss Hooper," before she could lean away he ducked, pressing her neck reverently. She blushed, but didn't have the heart to even faintly scold him. "Do you like your gift?" he asked.

"It's beautiful," Molly said, quite feelingly. "And you were right, I am afraid it is too much."

"Nonsense," his nose crinkled as he smiled at her. "It is hardly enough."

"It's just enough then," she conceded. The orchestra struck up, and he took her by the hand, setting her glass aside.

"Shall we?"

"If you can keep up," she answered and he gave her such a look Molly could only describe it as 'hungry'. "Behave," was all she said, barely able to believe her sudden boldness, but he smirked so naughtily that she didn't even have time to regret it. He took her by the waist, bringing her out to the floor, joining the other couples.

Off the ballroom, in a dimly lit corner, Mycroft Holmes stood near a beautiful, raven haired woman.

"Miss Adler, what now? Showing up without escort and invitation?"

"Who said I wasn't invited?" her gaze flicked across the ballroom, finding Prince George the Fifth. Mycroft followed where she looked, and then rolled his eyes.

"I hope I don't have to remind you of what happens, should you interfere with the royal family…again."

"If they follow after me, am I really interfering?"

"Yes." He ground out, glaring. "Now, what is your involvement with my brother?"

"Sadly, very, very little," she again looked over the ballroom. "I should have known to take an alternate route to him. The little mouse he's courting, she doesn't look quite right for the challenge of Sherlock Holmes."

"I expect you'll find out soon enough," Mycroft quipped.

"I intend to. She's relevant to the case I want Sherlock to take."

"Miss Adler," Mycroft's tone was warning, so she sighed heavily, exasperated.

"If you must know," she said, putting up a great show of being annoyed. "There is a girl of mine in the east end, I want Sherlock to find her before she turns up dead."

"Did you dismiss her from staff or from one of your…houses?" She smirked.

"Lord Holmes, I'd have to be a great fool to admit I own anything illegal, which I don't. She was actually my cook."

"What is her name?" Mycroft asked tiredly.

"Well," Irene smiled easily. "That's further than I got with your brother," she adjusted her bracelet. "Mind, she hasn't been in my employ for a number of years, but I know her, she seems to know where to find trouble, and admittedly has a bit of a problem drinking-"

"Then why look for her?" Irene shrugged, smiling.

"She's a good cook."

"Mm," Mycroft regarded her, not believing her excuse for a moment.

"Her name is Kelly, Mary Kelly."

Mycroft blinked. Sherlock had informed him of the Hooper's cook being discharged, so he was familiar with the name.

"Indeed? Perhaps you should ask Miss Hooper then,"

"Oh? Whatever for?"

"She was last in her employ, recently discharged on account of her drinking."

"Hm." Irene lingered, and Mycroft was surprised.

"Waiting to jump in for the kill?" he asked. Irene seemed to take a breath, as if gathering up her strength. Her smile was too easy, and it didn't reach her eyes.

"Not yet. I'll surprise her at Barts tomorrow. I should think her mind would be on her work tomorrow. Besides, Sherlock wouldn't appreciate my taking her attention from him." They turned back to the couple across the room. To all outside appearances, they were dancing at a perfectly respectable distance, occasionally he leaned in to speak in her ear, over the noise of the crowd. Sherlock's hand, though, was pressed flat to Molly Hooper's back, the tip of his gloved thumb just barely grazing the patch of exposed skin above the back of her gown. She leaned in when he did, her cheeks tinged with pink, no doubt blushing at whatever his brother was saying.

"No," Mycroft said to Irene, and stepped from the shadows. "No I don't think either of them would appreciate it." He headed towards his own beloved wife, excusing her from the women she was talking to. Come to think of it, he wouldn't appreciate his attention being diverted from his own wife. He paused, only to speak quietly to Sherlock, and then guiding Anthea out to the ballroom.

The dance finished, and Sherlock led Molly away from the floor, John and Mary already waiting in the conservatory.

"Something interesting," he said to the group. "Miss Alder is looking for her former cook." John frowned, looking from his wife to Sherlock.

"That's interesting?"

"It is, knowing what we all do now." He turned to Molly, giving her a look.

"What do we know?" she frowned.

"For goodness sakes, Holmes," Watson rolled his eyes. "Don't do that."

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"The _look_ , the look you always do-"

"It's my face-"

"Yes, and it's doing a thing. Your 'we-all-know-what's-going-on-here' face."

"We do," Sherlock looked at the group. Mary raised her eyebrows, shrugging. Molly just shook her head, doing her best not to laugh.

"No, we don't," John insisted. "Which is why I find the face so annoying!" Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Irene Adler once had a cook, very young for her age, she also employed her for…shall be say less than polite services for guests at parties she hosted, but, knowing this woman's character, soon discharged her. She doesn't like sloppy servants. Later on, Miss Hooper, you employed this same woman as your cook-"

"Mary Kelly!" she finished, quite shocked. Sherlock nodded.

"Just so."

"And now she's looking for her?" Mary asked. "What for?"

"Seems she has a soft spot for lost causes, wants me to find her."

"Did you tell Miss Adler where she's lodged?" John asked.

"No." He looked to Molly. "She knows Mary Kelly worked for you, and wants to meet you as well."

They left shortly after, everyone having had their fill of dancing. While John and Mary thanked the host, Sherlock turned to find the carriage, promising to return in a moment, leaving Molly alone. Suddenly Irene Adler was at Molly's side.

"My card, Miss Hooper," she said. Molly didn't know what to say.

"I'm afraid I'm very busy, Miss Adler, I don't have time to make house calls, and if I did, it wouldn't be on the living." Molly was again, surprised at her boldness, especially to a woman she had never met before.

"Cheeky!" Irene laughed heartily. "Just in case you have to send me anything regarding our previous cook," her gaze softened. "I understand you know where she's lodging."

"Yes," Molly nodded. "The east end."

"Heavens," Irene murmured.

"If you discharged her, surely you know why she takes residence there."

"All too well," Irene nodded. Molly didn't like how Irene smiled at her, and deep down she didn't quite trust The Woman's reasoning for looking for Mary Kelly. "Surely you have no objection, giving me her address?" Molly hesitated. Irene stepped forward. "You've no reason to trust me, Miss Hooper, and I don't blame you. I'm sure you've heard horror stories of me. If it makes you feel any better, I'm not a threat to what's going on between you and Sherlock." Somehow, it _was_ a comfort. "Mary Kelly did me a good service, she saved my life," Irene confessed, quite in earnest. "I'd like to do the same for her." Irene was so serious at that moment, Molly studying her so carefully. Something clicked.

"You know something," Molly realized. What it was, Molly couldn't guess, but Irene spoke as if she knew something terrible was going to happen.

"I do, and I can't say more, but please believe me it is with good intentions that I want to find her." Slowly, Molly nodded.  
"Miller's Court, off Dorset Street. She's in the ground flat, across from a pub." Irene nodded her thanks, relieved.  
"Thank you." She suddenly pressed Molly's cheek, her smile genuine this time. She looked over to see Sherlock stepping down from the carriage. "Take care of him, Miss Hooper, I understand he's head-over-heels for you, which is exactly where he should be." There was some naughty meaning behind that, and Molly didn't know quite how to take it.

"Goodnight, Miss Adler," Sherlock said.

"Goodnight Mister Holmes, Miss Hooper," she nodded to them both and went back inside, smiling in passing to the Watson's.

"What did she want?" John asked.

"Mary Kelly's address," Molly said. "She…she seemed actually concerned, as if she knew something was going to happen." Sherlock and John both frowned at each other.

"You shouldn't believe everything she says," Mary cautioned. Sherlock was studying Molly, he knew she wouldn't be so easily taken by The Woman.

"What do you think she meant?" he asked, waiting as John and Mary climbed inside the carriage.

"I don't know," Molly frowned. "But Sherlock…Sherlock she looked as if she knew something awful, and I don't know how…I really don't…but I think…" it didn't make sense, and she trailed off. She couldn't say what she meant. "Perhaps she knows the man Mary Kelly takes up with is a bad sort, and she wants to get her away." She looked as if she were trying to convince herself.

"Whatever it is, Irene Adler is resourceful, I'm sure they'll both be fine." John said, once they were all seated. The coach lurched forward, heading out the gates and back into London. Molly nodded, turning to the window. Sherlock squeezed her hand, both unsettled by The Woman's strange behaviour.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Warning: discussion of corpse, viscera, ect. This particular Jack the Ripper victim was considered his most bloody. I tamed it way down, but it's still pretty gross.**_

* * *

 **11:45pm that same evening, Whitechapel**

Mary Ann Cox heaved a sigh, glad the day was over and rent was paid up. She ambled down the street, rubbing her aching shoulders. The sound of scuffling footsteps and slurred speech was nothing shocking to her, so as the pair that approached her came closer, she merely looked to see who it was this time. The man, she didn't recognize at all, nor the shabby dark coat or black felt hat, but the woman on his arm who stumbled beside him she knew well enough.

"Mary," she chided, laughing.

"I am going to have a song, Mrs. Cox," Mary Kelly slurred.

"Oh yeah?" she laughed back, moving aside so they could pass. She watched the couple move down the alley, toward Mary Kelly's flat. Mrs. Cox went to her own room, hearing Mary Kelly softly singing:

 _But while life does remain, in memoriam I'll retain_

 _This small violet I plucked from mother's grave…_

She could hear Kelly still singing when she stepped back out, having collected a little money for the pub. She planned on not returning until the wee hours, when hopefully the noise of Mary Kelly's business would be over.

 **The following morning**

"Excuse me," Thomas Bowyer looked up, and then quickly removed his hat, smoothing down his neckerchief, hoping the stains of breakfast were not obvious to the beautiful woman standing before him. "Are you Thomas Bowyer?"

"I am, yes," he said, finding it difficult to swallow. He'd never seen such a beautiful woman, such an heir of privilege and refinement, yet there was a dangerous glint in her eye that made him want to listen to her. "I understand you rent to a Miss Kelly, on Miller Court?"

"Yes, I do," he nodded quickly. "Err, rather, I collect the rent for the landlord, John McCarthy. Late on her rent, uh, that is, if she's a friend of yours- not that you associate with someone like her-" the woman's apple-red lips curved up into a smile.

"Could you direct me to her flat?" her voice was all honey and sweetness.

"I could- can, yes ma'am," he jumped to his feet, rounding his small desk, grabbing his hat. She smiled politely at him as he quickly stepped aside for her to pass through the doorway first.

"Is it far from here?" she asked.

"No, ma'am, which is not to me, it's a few blocks away, I can call a cab,"

"That won't be necessary," she motioned to a large carriage, two liveried footmen and a driver waited. "Follow us to Miller's Court," she instructed. The footmen leapt onto the back of the carriage and they pulled away by the main road while Thomas Bowyer led the way on foot.

"She sleeps late, mind, I don't know as she'll be awake, is she expecting you?"

"No, sort of a surprise," the woman said.

Irene Adler was not at all tired from the previous evening's festivities, and having received Mary Kelly's address from Molly Hooper, she was eager to find her and get her away from Whitechapel. She wouldn't employ her, but she could set her up somewhere in the country where she would be safe. Thomas Bowyer was all too happy to show her the way, and she was glad it was not far from his residence, she frankly didn't want the dirty man in her carriage. Of course he was a rent collector, the man was massive, standing almost a foot taller than her. But like all men, he had a weakness, so far, Irene had concluded it was money and a pretty face.

In a few minutes they made their way to Miller's Court, her carriage stopped at the end of the street and waited for her. Thomas Bowyer knocked on the door, and then stepped back. Irene looked at the squalid flat, then at the surrounding neighborhood.

"That window is broken," she said.

"Eh, yeah, her old beau must've broken it. Meaning to get it fixed, soon as she pays rent, a new window will be put in."

"Oughtn't one be put in now?" Irene asked.

"When it can be afforded, it will be," Bowyer explained, meaning Mary Kelly's rent would pay for it. Irene nodded, understanding. Bowyer knocked again, having heard no answer. He stepped closer to the door, listening. "Quiet in there," he said. "She mind if you wake her?"

"Not at all," Irene said. He nodded, and reached through the broken pane to push aside the coat that hung over it as a curtain. He gave a soft cry, stumbling back, eyes wide. "What is it?" Irene demanded. "What's wrong?" She stepped forward, meaning to look herself, but Mr. Bowyer stopped her.

"No Miss," he took hold of her arm, pulling her away, don't look, by God- don't look, it's not-" he could barely finish the sentence as he stared at the broken window, coat fallen back in place. "- not fit for anyone."

"Unhand me this instant," Irene shrugged him off, stepping forward to push aside the coat, but Bowyer took hold of her, pulling her away. She kicked and thrashed, angry and afraid for what he would not let her see. Her two footmen came running, ready to defend her.

"Leave him be," she ordered, when they pulled Bowyer off her. "One of you go and fetch the police, something has happened. "You, Roberts," the other footman turned to her. "Go and fetch Sherlock Holmes, he should be at home at this hour. Take the carriage, now." The footman nodded, hurrying away. "Roberts!" she shouted after him. Bowyer had sunk onto the front step, head in his heads. "Tell him to bring Molly Hooper!"

"Don't look Miss," Bowyer begged. "God in Heaven, I'll have to live with it all my life, but please don't you look." The burly man trembled from head to toe, and Irene Adler found herself sitting beside him, holding his arm.

~O~

Sherlock Holmes was not expecting his bell to ring, though he was usually pleased when it did so, it meant either a case, or Molly was stopping in. This time, it happened to be a liveried footman, with familiar initials embroidered on his cuff.

"If Irene Adler wants me she can bloody well come here herself, provided she has an actual case-"

"You've got to come to Miller's Court," the man said, breathless. "And Miss Hooper's presence is requested as well."

"Miss Hooper?" Sherlock echoed, curious. "What in heaven's name does-" he stopped, realizing the address the footman gave. He grabbed his coat and hat. "I'm going out, Mrs. Hudson," he bellowed before slamming the door behind him. "I'll fetch a cab," he said. "Take this carriage to Miss Hooper's address, she's number five, two streets up, and fetch Doctor Watson as well, the address-"

"I have Doctor Watson's address," the footman said and jogged to the carriage.

 **Miller's Court**

Watson and Molly arrived at Miller's Court the same time that Lestrade did. Sherlock Holmes stood outside, Irene Adler stood near the rent collector.

"I told her not to look, she did anyway," the man was telling Sherlock. Irene looked as if she wished she had listened to him.

"I have not seen inside yet," Sherlock addressed Lestrade. "I understand it is rather graphic, and another pair of eyes might prove useful," he said, seeing the Detective Inspector look questioningly at Molly Hooper. Both doctors had their bags with them. Lestrade motioned for the two officers accompanying him to break down the door. It gave way easily, and they stepped back, pushing back the crowd of people beginning to gather. Sherlock stepped in first, Watson and then Molly and Lestrade close behind.

"Oh my God-"

Molly Hooper did not shut her eyes, she couldn't. She turned around in a full circle, finding her breath was gone. Slowly, she steeled herself. She put a hand to the doorway, unable to tear her gaze from the bed. She had never once fainted, never felt sick to her stomach at the sight of a body. The men around her all coughed, John Watson swore, not even apologizing as was his habit when she was in the room and she didn't blame him. She herself wanted to swear. Lestrade pulled off his hat, calling for the officers to go and send someone to fetch a cart and a tarp, and for more officers to keep people out.

"Detective Lestrade, will you hold my bag a moment?" Molly asked softly. He took it from her and she bent. He wondered why, until he realized she was rolling up her skirts and petticoats so they would not disturb the pool of blood at the end of the bed. Irene Adler, careful not to look inside the room, helped her tuck up her skirts well away from the floor before turning away to wait outside.

Clearing her throat, she stepped forward.

"What do you see, Molly?" Sherlock asked. John didn't scold him for using her given name for once.

"She's been completely disemboweled," she said, swallowing hard. She blinked, and then removed her leather gloves. She took off her coat and handed them both to Lestrade. Opening her bag, she removed a fresh pair of medical gloves. Watson did the same.

"Time of death?" Lestrade asked.

"Somewhere in the early morning, between two and eight in the morning," Watson said, studying the corpse.

"We'll know more when we get her to Barts," Molly glanced at the table. "Her entrails have been placed on the table, and her nose has been cut off."

"Are they all there, Watson?"

"Send a man for a sack for these," Watson called and another officer nodded, stepping out.

"Both breasts removed," Molly added.

"Not here," Watson said, looking over the table, this looks like viscera,"

"Her clothes are all laid by the bed in an ordinary manner," Sherlock commented, and then turned, frowning. "It would have been too dark with only the candle lit. What did he use for light?"

"Fireplace?" Lestrade asked. He had finally managed to tear his gaze away from the scene and taken out his notebook and pencil. He and Sherlock bent, looking at the grate.

"Yes," Sherlock said, he opened the grate. "One that burned bright enough to melt the solder between the kettle and it's spout," he noted.

"What was used for fuel?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock examined the ashes.

"Clothing," Sherlock said.

"What, her's?"

"I am not sure yet," Sherlock replied. He turned back to the room, studying it. "No appearance of struggle, your men can look for a knife, I doubt they would find it. Molly, has her throat been cut?"

"Yes," Watson joined her at the bedside.

"Rigor mortis is beginning to set in," he commented. "The whole surface of the thighs and abdomen have been removed, the abdomen has been emptied of its viscera."

"Tissues of the neck have all been severed all round down to the bone," Molly continued.

"Found the left breast," Watson commented. "With her uterus and kidney under her head," they heard a policeman step outside, retching into the gutter.

"Her other is here," Molly said. "By the right foot, liver placed between the feet." A photographer for the police stepped in, setting up a camera.

"Be sparing, Donovan," Lestrade told the officer. "No one needs to see this. Just one or two shots." The woman nodded, keeping her eyes on the camera and setting it up.

"Intestines have been placed on her right side, and the spleen on the left. Abdominal flaps and thighs are on the table," John said. Molly was studying the face, voice clinical, and she did not once tremble:

"Face is gashed in all directions, the nose, cheeks, eyebrows and ears being partly removed. Lips are blanched and cut by several incisions running down to the chin. Numerous cuts extending in an irregular fashion across all the features."

"Her neck's been cut through to the skin and other tissues, right down to the vertebrae," Watson broke in. "Fifth and sixth are deeply notched, blimey." They rattled off what they could see without probing the corpse too much yet. Lestrade lost track of how many medical terms he was misspelling, he was trying to keep up.

They'd finished their first overlook just as the wagon for the body pulled up. The officers unloaded a scuffed coffin, bringing it inside. The only thing missing from Mary Kelly's corpse was her heart.

"All in all, it would have taken him two hours," Molly said to Sherlock. "All of it was done after she was dead, the cause being a slit throat. Just from this initial examination, the knife would be about an inch wide, and at least six inches in length." Sherlock nodded, turning to Watson.

"Do you think he had medical training?" Watson was looking at the table, Mary Kelly's viscera being pushed into a sack with the rest of the organs.

"I don't know anymore," he said finally. "This is…butchery, pure and simple."

The body was loaded into the coffin, and Lestrade sent his men on inquiries of the neighborhood.

"Find Barnett, that fellow she tagged around with, I want to see him."

"It won't be him," Sherlock insisted.

"They parted ways, maybe he was jealous,"

"Perhaps," Sherlock nodded with a shrug. "But most men broken-hearted hit their ex-lovers, a few murder them, I suppose, but Mary Kelly was butchered. A man doesn't rip open the woman he supposedly loves."

"I still want to question him," Lestrade said and stalked off in the direction of the wagon. Molly and another officer were rolling up the bed linens to be brought to Scotland Yard for evidence.

Stepping out into the sun, Molly squinted at the light, blinking to adjust her eyes.

"Here," Irene stepped forward. "Your skirts are still rolled up," she bent and un-tucked them again, shaking out her petticoats. "Wouldn't want to give Sherlock a show just yet," she tried to smile. Straightening, she looked up the road to where her carriage was waiting. "My carraige will take you to Barts. It will be far more comfortable than a cab,"

"Thank you," Molly said, and she meant it. Sherlock took her elbow, helping her up then. Her face was pale, though she did not once tremble. He knew she wouldn't let herself, not until the business was over and dealt with.

"Do you have any idea who did this?" Sherlock asked Irene as she made to climb in after.

"I don't even know if it's his real name," she confessed. "Or that he's even responsible for this," Sherlock took hold of her elbow then, gripping it, preventing her from climbing up.

"What?" There was fire and ice in his eyes, and Irene actually trembled. "You _knew_ -"

"I never said I know, just that I had an idea-"

"An idea that could have prevented this _butchery_ -"

"I had to protect myself!" she burst out.

"Of course you did," he nodded sardonically.

"Well I cannot always depend on you now, can I?"

"I saved you once," he said quietly. "Just because I don't share your feelings does not mean I would not protect you." Irene looked then as if she might cry, understanding the full extent of her mistake. She blinked quickly, ducking her head. "You seem to know who it is," Sherlock pressed. Irene nodded. "What is his name?"

"The police like to call this fellow 'Jack'," she said finally.

"A catching name given by the press," Sherlock said. "Pulls people in."

"I think he prefers the name 'Jim'." She climbed in, Sherlock blindly helping her up.

"Jim?" he repeated, following. The footman shut the door and in a moment the carriage pulled forward, following the wagon to Barts.

"He's Irish," Irene said.

"How do you know?" Molly asked.

"His accent."

 **St. Barts Mortuary**

Sherlock waited the full three hours for Molly to complete the official autopsy. John stood by to assist with permission from Scotland Yard. Molly had never had an assistant before, and she was perfectly capable of handling the autopsy on her own. Still, she knew this particular case was very sensitive, and nothing like this had ever happened before. Two sets of hands were less likely to miss something important.

They found little else aside from their initial findings. Now, Molly set to her usual work, seeing how old Mary Kelly was, taking samples, looking at the contents of her stomach and so on. John Watson listened quietly, and, when he noticed her brow beginning to grow damp, fetching a cloth and wiped the moisture away.

"Take your time," he said. She gave a small nod, understanding he meant that she was doing well.

"I just don't understand," she shook her head.

"What?"

"In every case before this, he was looking for something, he was, I swear, I could see what he was trying to do, the way he opened the bodies, like he didn't know how to, but he knew where some organs were. But this…" she pointed her scalpel to Mary Kelly's left thigh, or what was left of it. It had been stripped of skin fascia and muscle as far as the knee. She pointed again to the right calf, to the long gash through tissue and muscles from the knee to almost her ankle. "None of this makes sense…it doesn't…" she stepped away, looking at the corpse. "I could almost understand someone with medical knowledge who can't get cadavers, so he finds his own, but this is madness." She looked at Watson, her eyes full of questions, seen too much, understanding very little of the case. Everything she had been able to piece together regarding the Ripper seemed to fall apart, and she felt useless. "I can't make sense of this at all." Watson took her smock-covered arm, squeezing gently.

"Your job is to state what you find, you're doing a marvelous job," Watson soothed.

"How can I help solve this if nothing makes sense?!" Molly burst out. "He set out a pattern, to kill someone, to take something from them-"

"He's irregular in everything," Watson said. Molly stepped back up to the table, picking up her knives again. "The letters he sends, supposedly sends," he clarified. "They're all over the place, no one can make sense of them." He leaned closer, wiping her brow again. "You're trying to make sense of a man who kills women for the fun of it, and takes their insides and arranges them as if they were artwork."

"I know, I must be off," Molly gave a watery laugh. "I guess I just…I thought I was seeing patterns."

"You weren't wrong," they both looked up to see Sherlock in the doorway. "He did take something this time," he crossed the room, coming to stand on the opposite side of the table. "Her heart has not been found in or around Miller's Court, nor, I assume, in any other part of her corpse."

"No," Molly shook her head.

"Then we can safely assume he's taken it with him," he studied the corpse. "Curious that he took such an important organ compared to the previous victims,"

"You mean you think he's trying to tell us something?"

"Not us," Sherlock said. "Me."

"You?" both John and Molly echoed.

"I have been speaking with Miss Adler," Sherlock continued. "She confessed that the man she believes could be behind all this, is apparently a fan of my work." As he spoke, Molly took the sack of viscera and organs, placing them in the cavity of the body.

"I'll close her up," John offered. They looked at the cavity, at the missing abdomen flaps they should have been able to close, and then at each other. "Er…that is…"

"It's alright, we'll find a sheet and wrap her, and then cover the rest of her up." Molly said and then turned to Sherlock as she moved to the linen cupboard at the far end of the room. "So, go on," she said. "Who is it that Irene Adler thinks did it?"

"A professor, if you can believe it," Sherlock said, bouncing on his heels. The doors at the far end of the mortuary opened and closed, alerting them to Inspector Lestrade's arrival. "Professor James Moriarty."

The pair looked at the consulting detective, wracking their brains, wondering about the name until Lestrade stopped at the table.

"Doctor Hooper, Barnett is here, we need him to identify the body, make sure this is really Mary Kelly, is she…em…decent enough to be seen?"

"Yes, just give me a few moments to close her up," Molly answered. This was the moment she always dreaded, when relatives and loved ones came to see if the body on her slab was truly their beloved. Carefully, she and Watson draped a sheet, tucking it under the body, and then draped another sheet head to toe over her. "Send him in," she called, and Lestrade, still waiting at the far end, nodded, opening the door. Barnett shuffled in, wringing his hat in his hands. Sherlock stepped aside, keeping well back.

"Prepare yourself," Molly said.

"Who's this?" Barnett asked, his voice thick with emotion. "Some woman tell me-"

"Just tell us if it's her or not," Lestrade instructed tiredly. Barnett looked back at Molly, and then the sheet.

"Why I gotta prepare myself?"

"She's…been badly marked," Molly said, choosing her words carefully. Pulling back the sheet, she waited. Barnett looked at the pale face. He had not seen it hours earlier, covered in blood, looking a ghastly sight. Even washed again and again, cuts cleaned, the deeper ones sewn shut, the face was barely a face.

"Looks like her, by her ears," Barnett said gruffly. He scuffed his boots. "She…she still have her eyes?" Molly reached forward, carefully opening the eyelids. Barnett leaned close as he dared, hands clutching his hat trembled violently. He stumbled back, nodding. "Blue eyes, I know her eyes…it's her…it's…no one has eyes like my Mary." Molly closed the eyelids again, pulling the sheet over the body again.

"Thank you, for your assistance," Lestrade said. Sniffling, Barnett wiped his nose on his sleeve. He let the Detective Inspector lead him out.

Slowly, John and Molly began to clean up, washing and putting away the knives and instruments, setting their smocks in the laundry hamper and finding their coats and hats. It wasn't until Sherlock pushed her hands out of the way to button her coat for her that she realized how badly she was shaking. He settled her scarf around her neck, and she leaned into him, fingers digging into the back of his coat.

" _Send me to my death, just you wait, you'll blame yourself, when it happens, you drove me to this, and it will be your fault!"_

She could hear Mary Kelly's ominous warning over and over again.

"My fault…" she murmured.  
"It is not," Sherlock answered sternly. "It was a matter of time, Molly Hooper, and no one could have prevented this. It is most certainly not your fault." John, looking haggard, wearily pressed Molly's arm.

"I'm going home to Mary," he said to Sherlock. "Will you see her home?" Sherlock nodded he would.

In the cold rainy evening, they shivered as a cab slowed to a stop. Sherlock helped her up inside, climbing in after and giving the address to the driver. He put his arm around Molly, drawing her near.

"I can't stop shaking," she finally managed. "I hate myself for it."

"It's understandable," he excused. He did not blame her. It was horrifying to see a person so horribly brutalized, he imagined it was impacted by the fact that it was her own sex, and too because it was someone she knew.

"I feel like a fool, making all these assumptions about the Ripper, as if I'm a bloody detective-"

"Your services are invaluable, don't sell yourself short, and your theories were not wrong," Sherlock interrupted her, quite stern. "Molly Hooper, I will not tolerate you belittling yourself any more. Do you know how very brilliant you are?" He pressed her forehead, and felt a small relief when she sighed lightly, relaxing a little.

"I'm sorry…I'm thrown."

"Rightly so," Sherlock nodded. "You need a hot bath," She hummed in response, apparently delighted at the prospect. "Baker street is closer…" he blurted out.

"Sherlock!"

"Oh hush," he chuckled. "Of course I would not suggest it…though I would not be opposed to it."

"What of this Professor Moriarty?" she asked, changing the subject, though Sherlock was pleased to note her snuggling deeper into his arms.

"I don't know, Irene Adler will be coming to Baker Street tomorrow with her information. Naturally, I should like you to be there before she arrives."

"She'll probably anticipate that," Molly said.

"Hmm. I told her to call at eleven, which means she'll stop in at quarter after ten."

"I'll come right after breakfast," Molly countered neatly. "John Watson should come as well."

"Hmm, yes I've sent him a note that he'll be needed."

"I received the invitation to your mother's this morning," Molly suddenly remembered. "Father and I have been invited to stay the weekend."

"Hm," Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing, she must have spoken to Mycroft," Sherlock answered. "She had given me the impression she would only invite you to tea, which is what I was rather hoping for, than a weekend trip."

"Why?" Molly asked.

"I'll have to go as well," he continued. "So she doesn't bring up any embarrassing stories."

"Oh I'm hoping for those," Molly smiled at last, truly her own smile that reached her eyes and Sherlock was glad, even if it was because she was teasing him. "Especially for baby pictures."

"You, madam, are heading directly for a punishment."

"Oh?" she quirked an eyebrow. "What sort of punishment is that?"

"I shall kiss you in public," he declared.

"Sherlock don't you dare,"

"Do you concede?"

"Never." He drew her closer, and when she did not struggle, he closed the distance between them, finally bringing her lips to his.

Molly wondered what first kisses were like. Whatever romantic notion she had in mind, whatever pretty picture she'd conjured up was swept aside as she curled into Sherlock's embrace, quite happy to let him kiss her silly. They did finally part, breathless and flushed. Sherlock bent again, gently pressing her lips.

"Not quite a punishment," she murmured, smiling, embarrassed.

"Rather more of a reward," he agreed.

The cab finally came to a stop outside of her house, and both climbed out.

"Stay for supper?" Molly asked. Sherlock hesitated, and she smiled, understanding. "It's all right. I know you don't want to."

"It isn't that-" he began, meaning that it was not her company that was unwelcome.

"You've got too much to do," she nodded, understanding. "It's all right," she soothed. Rising on tiptoe, she kissed him again, shivering as the rain dripped down the brim of his hat and onto her collar. "Go straight home, build more of your spiders web. Be. Safe." She gripped his hands tightly, and he brought her gloved fingers to his lips.

"Always." He smiled gently at her then. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at nine."

"Until then," she kissed the tip of his nose. "I do love you, you know."

"I know." He smirked, teasing. "Just as I love you."

He waited until she was inside, then turned back to the waiting cab.

"221 Baker Street." He shut the doors, tapping his knees impatiently. "Moriarty." He muttered under his breath, thinking.

 _Professor James Moriarty_

He knew a little of the professor, a mathematician, a genius in his own right. He'd fallen out of society some years ago. In the short drive back to Baker street, Sherlock began to piece together the information he knew, already making space in his mind palace for a new portion of the case. As he stepped down, he held up the money for the cab driver.

"No charge mister," the driver called down, a lilt in his voice. Sherlock frowned up at the man, face hidden in shadow. His arm still holding up the money, he watched as the cab drove away, into the fog and out of sight. Sherlock frowned, disturbed, and he did not know why.


	7. Chapter 7

_There is a moment of sheer discomfort and horror when one realizes they are being watched. Molly Hooper was fast asleep when slowly, she felt herself roused, her dreams disturbed. She found herself blinking in the dark, unable to shake that queer feeling that she was being watched. A weight settled over her belly, and she felt herself grunt in pain, finding it difficult to breathe. The weight shifted, as if getting comfortable. Fluttering her eyes open, she became aware of a cold instrument against her neck, the bed covers had been pushed back. She gasped, stiffening as the weight leaned forward. A gloved hand covered her mouth, preventing her from screaming.  
"Shhhh, Doctor Hooper," a lilting voice soothed her. "Be quiet, or you'll ruin everything! I've worked so hard to get all the pieces in place, you see."_

"Moriarty _?" she asked, eyes wide. The knife was remained at her throat, though the figure remained crouched on her bed, straddling her waist to keep her still._

" _In the flesh dearie!" The fire burned low, casting long, eerie shadows across his face._

 _A match was struck, illuminating the pale face. The features surprised her, not so much the dark eyes, but that his countenance was almost elegant. Clean-shaven and hair combed, not at all the picture the newspapers had painted of the Ripper. He was dressed in a cabbie's uniform, someone who could easily pass for a decent fellow. She felt her heart lurch, realizing that he must have been the cabbie to drive Sherlock home as well. A glance around her room revealed a cab driver's coat thrown over the chair near the fireplace._

" _What do you want?"_ _He scooted forward, bending low so his mouth was against her ear._

" _To play a game."_

 **221b Baker Street 10:35 am**

The door to the front hall opened to reveal Irene Adler, Sherlock's shoulders visibly slumped, but he nodded her in.

"You're late," he informed her.

"Actually I'm early," she stepped in after him, handing her umbrella and wrap to Mrs. Hudson's waiting hands.

"For you, you're late," he said over his shoulder, heading into the parlor.

"I'm not the only one late, I see," Irene noted the untouched tea tray, the cups still turned on their rims, waiting to be used. She seated herself, taking one of the cups and turning it over. "Where is our darling Molly Hooper this morning? I expected her to be here already."

"Obviously she is not here," Sherlock snapped, clearly agitated. The cabbie's behavior on the previous evening disturbed him greatly, the more he thought about it, and he disliked being disturbed without reason.

"I suspect you would not like to start until she gets here," Irene said, settling into the cushions.

"Quite right. So do be quiet while I think," he sat in his chair by the fire, steepling his fingers under his chin. Irene noticed he faced the window.

"You've moved your chair to face the front windows," she commented."

"Yes. People move furniture."

"You don't."

"I do if it's conducive to clear thinking."

"Hmm."

It was not like Molly to be late. After five minutes, Sherlock sprang to his feet, and paced the length of the parlor. Irene sighed, setting her cup down.

"What time did she say she'd get here?"

"Nine." Irene shrugged.

"Perhaps she was called to the hospital, or the Watson's are bringing her." There was a fuss at the door; no sooner had the bell rung that it was pushed open, Mrs. Hudson had barely touched the door handle, shocked as she was forced back.

"You can't just push in like this-" she insisted, quite horrified. Sherlock was very surprised to see Ellen, the Hooper's maid rushing in, still in her apron and cap.

"What's happened Ellen?" His first thought was that Mr. Hooper had come to some injury. The maid grasped his forearms for support, overcome as she began to cry again.

"Oh Mister Holmes you've got to come right away! He's in such a state, we can't find her-"

"Stop sobbing this instant!" Sherlock ordered. "Who?!" He might have guessed who, but he didn't dare believe it, not until Ellen swallowed her tears and gasped out:

"Miss Hooper!" Sherlock grasped the maid by the shoulders, nearly shaking her.

"What has happened?"

"We can't find her, she never rang for her tray so I never- I didn't go up to wake her until Mister Hooper asked at half-past eight if she were still abed," Ellen was ringing her hands, tears filling her eyes. Irene stood, coming to put an arm around her.

"There, there, take a deep breath," she soothed. "Perhaps she was called to Barts," she looked from the maid to Sherlock.

"No," Ellen shook her head. "Her door was locked from the inside, she never locks her door." She fumbled through her coat pockets, finding a crumpled piece of paper. "We got in, her bed was empty, window open. This note was here, and- and-"

"And what?!" Sherlock nearly roared, snatching the note from Ellen.

"There were a heart- I-I don't know who's but it was all wrapped up like a parcel and-" Irene's eyes widened, she looked to Sherlock.

' _I suspect you know by now my real name, thanks to Irene Adler. Stand by for my next message. Miss Hooper will be my assistant for as long as she's able to play the game. J.M.'_

Sherlock looked at Irene, shooting her a murderous look. He stuffed the note in his pocket, bolting for the door. Ellen followed, nearly knocking over Mr. and Mrs. Watson as they came in.

 **Hooper Residence**

Frederick Hooper sat with his head in his hands outside Molly's room. He looked up when he saw Sherlock run up the stairs. John Watson close behind.

"She's gone…" was all he said, quite pale and weak. Watson knelt, seeing the elderly gentleman's countenance was certainly not what it should be. The shock of his only daughter being taken by London's most notorious killer was almost too much for him to bear. John disliked seeing him so weak, and wished he had his bag with him. Mary Watson sent Ellen to find Molly's bag (it would be downstairs somewhere, surely), so they could tend to Frederick.

Sherlock came to a stop just outside the open bedroom door. He could see the bedclothes had been pushed back; an open box had been dropped to the floor, a misshapen lump just barely visible. Ellen was sobbing behind them, carrying up Molly's bag of instruments. Watson took it, finding a stethoscope.

"She's dead, it's her's isn't it Mister Holmes?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Ellen, do stop crying, it is not her's, and she is alive. The linens are far too clean for it to be hers." He suddenly remembered that Mr. Hooper was sitting just to his left outside the bedroom, and held his tongue from any further deductions. "I will find her," he promised the elderly gentleman, who looked up at Sherlock, faded eyes shining with tears as if he had already lost his only child. "I will find her," he repeated, squeezing the gentleman's shoulder.  
"Mary," John stepped forward, quiet, he removed the stethoscope from his neck, handing it to her. "Would you be good enough to help Mr. Hooper downstairs? Ellen, go make a pot of tea." Irene watched the elderly gentleman get to his feet, looking as if he had no strength left. He clearly felt as if the situation was hopeless, and Irene was inclined to agree with him.

Stepping all the way into Molly's room, Sherlock forced himself to separate himself from the situation and to observe the facts of the room. The room was neat and everything in its place. Nothing was out of the ordinary, except the bed, and the box lying on its side on the floor. The whole room smelled of her perfume, and he pushed back thoughts of her in his arms, the night of the ball. He blinked, pressing forward. A hair receiver sat at the corner of the vanity, nearly full, and he was reminded of the time he deduced she was wearing a switch. She'd slapped him for it, and he realized that deductions of appearance did not always need to be said aloud.

John watched his best friend move slowly around the room, fingering objects and turning them over before setting them back exactly as they were. He watched him rifle through the vase of flowers, in search of perhaps a hidden note, but no such luck. The keys to the morgue and labs of St. Barts were in the left drawer of the vanity. John cleared his throat as Sherlock began to open the wardrobe.

"Needs must, Watson," the consulting detective said and began to rifle through Miss Hooper's drawers. If the tips of his ears turned red at the sight of Molly's under things, both John and Sherlock pretended not to notice. Suddenly, Sherlock whirled around, staring at the bed, the wrinkled sheets.

"If you were to subdue a sleeping woman so she would not scream and alert the house, how would you do it?"

"Chloroform," John answered, not at all surprised by this sort of questioning now.

"But if you wanted her to know who you were?"

"I…wouldn't…" John frowned, confused.

"But the Ripper, Moriarty, he does, he wants to see the look of fear," Sherlock was still looking at the bed. "He doesn't leave hidden notes or clues, and he wouldn't give Molly a chance either." He leapt onto the mattress, knees apart.

"He crawled up over her, sat on her belly so she couldn't get away," he said. "Hand over her mouth as soon as she roused," John watched as the consulting detective leaned forward. "The other hand," Sherlock made a gesture, as if holding a knife against the edge of the pillow, as if it were a throat. "She slid out from under him, probably at his request, so he wouldn't' risk climbing off her and her kicking him. A knife at her throat would give her little chance." Sherlock looked to the empty place on the floor. Molly's slippers were missing. "He let her put on her shoes, or she slipped them on when she got out of bed as a habit," he murmured. "At least she is not barefoot."

"Her robe is missing as well," Watson said, looking carefully under the folded over blanket.

"The window was his entry point," Sherlock observed the smudges on the windowsill. "And most probably the exit as well, the tracks face both ways."

"Good God!" Watson stared. "But Holmes, is she-" he couldn't even finish the thought.

"No," Sherlock said, and got off the bed, studying the linens. "Not yet, we've very little time though, I think. I must contact Mycroft." Watson nodded. Sherlock bent, finally looking at the parcel Moriarty had left in lieu of Molly.

"Who's is it?" Watson asked.

"Damned if I know," Sherlock shrugged. Retrieving his kerchief from his breast-pocket, he picked up the heart, turning it over. "It's been preserved, how long would you say, Watson?"

"Few weeks I'd say," Sherlock nodded. "Doesn't smell like it's been properly preserved either," Watson's nose wrinkled at the smell.

"He's kept it in alcohol," Sherlock said. "Gin probably, easy enough to obtain." Watson nodded. Setting the organ back in the box, he replaced the lid and handed it to the doctor. "You'd better see to this for now. We'll hold onto it until we know more."

"I'll eh, send a note to Mycroft's club then, shall I?" Watson asked, tucking the box under his arm.

"Do," Sherlock nodded. "See that he knows it involves Miss Hooper, he'll be more likely to offer his help."

They paused in the doorway, and Sherlock turned to look at the room, taking it in. Watson let him, not having the heart to tease him for the sentiment.

"We're going to find her, Holmes,"

"But in what state, I wonder?" Sherlock asked. They began downstairs.

"Moriarty has a leg up on us, he knows where we live, he knows where Molly works, that she has performed autopsies on all the women."

"So she'll know his methods then," John interrupted. "If she knows his _modus operandi_ then she'll be more likely to find some kind of weakness in his plan." Sherlock stopped on the stairs then, turning to Watson.

"Thank you," and he meant it. He disliked how clouded his thinking capacity was. He had to find Molly, so things could go back to the way they were. Only this time, he was bloody-well proposing, and they would be married before the end of the year.

Seeing Irene waiting at the bottom of the stairway, Sherlock's expression grew quite dark. He pounced upon her, backing her up to the wall.

"Holmes!" Watson shouted, but Sherlock ignored him.

"If you had anything-"

"I swear I didn't know-" The Woman's eyes were wild with fright, quite overcome. "I never knew, I never once thought he would take her, I promise you-"

"Why should I believe you?" Sherlock ground out.

"Because I'm your best chance of finding her before it's too late."

"John," Mary's soft, strong voice interrupted them. Sherlock did not look away from The Woman, but Watson turned. Mary stood in the doorway; she'd taken off her hat and gloves. Slowly, Sherlock released Irene, who rubbed her arms, shaken.

"If I find you were involved in this, in any way…" Sherlock could not complete the sentence, and Irene nodded, looking anywhere but at the consulting detective.

"I think we'd better stay here for the time being," Mary said when the men joined them in the library. "Mr. Hooper should not be moved."

"Is he all right?" Watson asked. "Shall I send for my bag?" Mary shook her head.

"I think the shock has been too much for him, he says he doesn't feel right, I wonder if he is headed for a stroke," she said, low. John nodded, removing his hat and gloves.

"We'll see what we can do for him. Right now all we can do is wait for Moriarty to contact us, and send for Mycroft and Lestrade." Mary nodded.

Irene Adler sat down in the library, removing her hat and gloves.

"Will you need anything from Baker Street?" John asked Sherlock. "Your spiders web?"

"No, I have it," Sherlock settled into a chair by the fireplace, steepling his fingers. Watson knew his friend was thinking deeply on the facts at hand and it would be best to leave him be for the time being.

"Everything I have on Moriarty is in my bag," Irene said to Watson. "He only ever contacted me through notes."

"How did you first come to meet him?"

"Client," Irene shrugged.  
"Were his tastes…bizarre?" Watson struggled for a way to put the question without being crass. Irene grinned, quite enjoying the doctor's discomfort.

"No more than others," she replied. "He only came for business once or twice. Usually he needed a woman to escort about town, to parties or the like. What he did with them later, naturally, is best left unsaid."

"They were never harmed, never came home with marks?"

"No unusual marks," Irene clarified. Watson coughed, looking at the business cards instead.

"Is it safe to assume these are all false addresses?"

"Quite," she nodded. "I've had my men go to them personally, do their own bit of snooping. Empty buildings, abandoned store fronts, not fit for anyone to live there. But it's the only address to get in contact with him, so he must check it for post."

"Hm."

"Are you certain your men checked inside the buildings?" Sherlock asked, having been listening from his place by the fire.

"They looked in, I advised them against breaking and entering."

"I'm rarely prone to listen to anyone advising against anything," Sherlock got to his feet. He took the business cards from the side table and pocketed them. "Come Watson,"

"I'm coming too," Irene insisted.

"Good God, what for?" Watson blustered. "It's not fit-"

"We need an extra pair of hands," Sherlock said.

"But Holmes, we can't trust her!"

"No, but we haven't a choice. We cannot leave Frederick Hooper, on the verge of a breakdown in anyone's hands but Mary's, she is at least a trained nurse. Irene couldn't make tea, let alone know what to do if the poor man seizes or has a heart-attack." He studied The Woman. "You are being brought along merely because I haven't a choice, you realize."

"I understand."

"Which of these addresses did you regularly receive post from?" he asked. She sorted through them, handing him the address she knew best.

"Then we'll go to the least-popular building."

"What? Holmes surely if he regularly gets mail-"

"Then the building that is most-likely unoccupied would surely have occupants today, would it not? If you wanted to hide, would you go to a crowded tenement?"

"I might do," John answered crossly.

"Moriarty wouldn't. He needs quiet to work,"

"God, don't put it like that," Watson groaned, putting on his hat, following Holmes and Irene out the door.

"I doubt very much he's going to try anything today," Sherlock said, hailing a cab. "He wants to play a game, he's raised the stakes. Rather than kill an innocent woman and leave her body to find, he wants us to find Molly."

"But too soon or too late?"

"That's entirely up to him, unfortunately," Irene said, climbing into the cab.

"With any luck, before, well before," Sherlock said, and gave the address to the cabbie.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Previous Night**

 _From her room, dressed in only her nightgown, robe and slippers, Molly was urged out her own bedroom window, tied to Moriarty by a length of rope so both could descend safely (an ironic precaution, as she was fairly certain they were kidnapping her to do some kind of harm to her). To ensure she would not scream, she'd been gagged, and a man waited on the sidewalk just beneath them, a pistol trained on her. Once she was within arm's length of this man, he took hold of her, holding her fast while Moriarty stepped lightly to the sidewalk._

" _Round the corner, if you please, to the coach," they were in a huddle, keeping to the shadows. Behind them, Molly could see a little boy, a familiar face without a name, he was staring after them. One of Sherlock's irregulars! She kicked off one of her slippers, staring at the little boy, willing him to understand._

 _The boy's name was Jimmy, he'd been sent to relieve the current watch at the Hooper residence. He'd seen a man in a carriage uniform climb to Miss Hooper's window and watched from the shadows as she was taken away. He waited until she'd been pushed into the coach before running out into the open to pick it up. Mister Holmes would want to know where Miss Hooper was going, or rather, was being taken. The boy ran after the coach, grabbing hold of the small bench on the back and hoisted himself up, concealing himself out of sight of the driver. He rode for a time, until he heard the man call to slow the horses. Slipper in hand, he made his exit, ducking into an alley. When the door opened again, he waited to see in what condition Miss Hooper was in. She was unconscious now, whether struck or drugged, he did not know, and Mister Holmes would not thank him to find out just yet. The information he had was enough: her location, and that she was alive, for now. Committing the address to memory, he hurried back toward Baker Street; hopefully Mister Holmes was not abed yet._

 _Through the cold dark streets he ran, ducking through alleys and side streets to make better time. Just as he neared Baker Street, he felt something nab him by the collar._

" _Oi there!" He looked up to see a policeman holding him fast. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? And wot's that in your hand?"_

" _Nuffin, I found it, I'm returning it!"_

" _Stealing it more likely!" The boy struggled, kicking the officer._

" _Let me go!"_

" _All right, all right, we'll take you to the Yard; see what the officer in charge has to say."_

 _Scotland Yard was quiet this time of night. Lestrade was rarely ever here so late, he wished he had not cancelled his dinner plans with Sally Donovan. He'd much rather spend the evening in her company than the piles of paperwork staring him in the face. With a yawn and a stretch he went to see if there was any water in the kettle, only to find a small commotion up front._

" _I said I found it!"_

" _It's a bed slipper, lady's by the looks of it, and very fine one too, where he got it, I don't know-"  
"What's this?" Lestrade called. The sergeant on duty turned, along with the officer and the boy. Lestrade frowned at the lad. "Jimmy? Is that you lad?" The boy shrugged out of the officer's grasp, yanking the slipper out of the officer's hand. _

" _I have to find Mister 'olmes."_

" _What for?" Lestrade glanced at the officer. "It's all right Brimley, it's one of the Baker Street Irregulars. Mister Holmes looks after them."_

" _Back to the beat, officer," the Sergeant said and the policeman nodded, heading back out. Lestrade guided Jimmy to a chair._

" _Why do you need to find Mister Holmes? Who's slipper is that?"_

" _It's his lady friend's, that Miss Hooper, I saw her carried off, and I need to find him now!"_

" _Miss Hooper? Taken?" Lestrade looked puzzled. The boy nodded, sure._

" _It was my watch tonight. I saw two men outside Miss Hooper's room, they had her between them and she was gagged. The short one had a gun. They put her in a coach and she's on East End, in the empty factory." Lestrade looked at the slipper, and then at Jimmy. He didn't know the boy very well; only that Sherlock had promised him the Irregulars could always be trusted._

" _Which one?"_

" _Don't know, can't read the name on it, but it had big red and yellow lettering," he paused, thinking carefully. "There was something else, it didn't smell like spices."_

" _Why's that relevant?" the sergeant piped up._

" _Narrows the choice of building, don't it?" Jimmy asked and Lestrade grinned, chuckling. Yes, this was an Irregular sure enough._

" _Well there's a few buildings that don't store food stuffs, would you know it if you saw it?" Lestrade asked and the boy nodded vigorously. "All right then." He studied the boy for a moment. "If you're right, I'll get you a hot pie, one that doesn't have cat in it." He pocketed the slipper, letting the boy lead the way._

 **The following morning, Abandoned Textile Factory**

Molly slowly came to, feeling groggy. Her head ached, but it did not throb, which meant she had been drugged rather than struck. She blinked, clearing her vision,

"There, there, coming out from under chloroform isn't always pleasant, take your time," a man's voice, it had to be Moriarty's, spoke soothingly to her. Her limbs were limp still. "Affects of the drug, dearie," Moriarty said as he cut lengths of rope. For the time being she could only loll her head over, looking at him with disturbed fascination. He tied her ankles to the chair legs, frowning at her one bare foot. "Tsk, tsk," he shook his head. "Fetch some warm water," he said to someone, a man, who left the corner of the room. The man returned with a kettle, he set it over the fire to warm. Molly began to take in her surroundings. The room was warm, not at all what she had expected. It was no bigger than her bedroom, and surprisingly, cozily furnished. A fire crackled nicely behind the grate, the man who fetched the water poked the fire, looked at the coal bucket and set the fire screens up. He kept his eyes on the floor, stealing only a glance at her before Moriarty tutted him.

"Naughty, Mr. Moran, looking at a young woman in nothing but her bedclothes. Eyes on the floor if you please. We mustn't make Miss Hooper uncomfortable. We want to see she's as relaxed as possible if I'm to work." He smiled at her, and Molly felt as if she might be sick. His smile was so easy and comfortable about his 'work' as if he were a porter man. "My father used to be a coalman," Moriarty said as he tied Molly to a chair. "Dirty, nasty business. Nothing ever stays clean when you're a coalman. I learned very quickly how to work without getting anything dirty." He checked the rope on her wrists and ankles, smiling up at her afterwards. "Mustn't let there be any wiggle room." Once she was secure, he stood and removed the cloth from her mouth that gagged her. He folded it neatly and set it on a side table to her left. By the far wall was a narrow bed, the covers folded back. Just by the headboard was a pull-cord. He saw her looking around the room and smiled. "I like to be comfortable when I work," James Moriarty shrugged. "Cold hands make for sloppy incisions."

"Your incisions are hardly neat," Molly couldn't help but speak up. Moriarty actually laughed.

"While my skills can't possibly be compared with a surgeon's, they do the job,"

"What job would that be?"

"Does there have to be a purpose?" he asked. His gaze was so intense that Molly almost looked away. Almost. Remembering the bodies of his previous victims, she stared right back.

"There is almost always a purpose, when someone commits murder."

" _Almost_ always, being the key phrase there, Miss Hooper, or should I call you doctor? You did graduate after all, your father must have been so proud," she looked up at the mention of her father. "He's very old, isn't he? Well I shouldn't bother with him, so you mustn't worry." He rose from his seat, removing the kettle and filling the basin. He knelt, tugging off her other slipper.

Molly felt disturbed, seeing a man who'd so brutally murdered so many women, now gently washing her feet as if he were her lover (good God, that was a thought to make anyone shudder). He ran a soft, warm cloth over the arch of her foot and then under, wiping away the grime of the London streets. Her feet were cold, and the hot water felt good, but the man doing the deed made her flesh crawl. Feeling her become more and more agitated, the gentler his minstrations became.

"Isn't it funny," Moriarty said, looking at her feet as he washed them. "How someone can do what I do, and still not be caught? Someone can gut a person in the most brutal fashion and still do nice things." He looked up at her. "Why do you think that is, Miss Hooper?"

"I- I don't know."

"Miss Hooper, Sherlock Holmes has a particular interest in you for a reason, and I doubt it's merely for your sumptuous figure." He looked up at her, eyes gleaming in the firelight. "No, Miss Hooper, you know so much more than you let on, that's why you've captured the World's Only Consulting Detective. He likes cleverness, he likes, despite what he says, pretty faces, and, above all, he likes a meek woman. That's why he and Irene were ill-suited."

"I am hardly meek, sir," Molly said. Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, surely, surely," he placated. "But who bows to the other's demands first? Hm?"

"We don't demand anything from each other," Molly insisted. "We are equals, he's always treated me as an equal, and he will find me."

"Find you? Oh yes, yes, I've no doubt about that, I intend to lead Sherlock right to you, dearie." Moriarty wiped her feet dry, smiling up at her. "Or rather, your screaming will lead him right to _me_." Molly could not mask the fear in her eyes, nor the fact that she was visibly shaking, despite the warmth of the fire. The door opened, Moran entered again, this time carrying a black bag. "Ah, Mr. Moran, everything clean and polished?"

"Yes sir,"

"Very good." To Molly's horror, he opened the bag and began to lay out instruments on the side table. Instruments she recognized all-too-well from her work at the morgue.

"So, Miss Hooper," Moriarty looked up at her, suddenly startled. "Shall I call you 'Doctor'?"

"Does it matter to you?" Molly did wonder at her boldness, but then, if her life was to end in a matter of moments, she would hate to let this madman think he'd have the upper hand in conversation.

"Of course it matters my dear!" He cooed. "Look at it this way," he selected a scalpel. "This is a knife, is it not?"

"It's technical term is a scalpel, but I have heard them called hobby knifes, or lancet."

"There, you see, all different, but correct terms for something as simple as what many would merely call a knife! You are a Miss, and also a Doctor, it all comes down to what you prefer." He bent low, nose almost touching her's. "What do you prefer?" Staring back into his dark eyes, she blinked. His calm demeanor disturbed her the most.

"When I'm not working, I am Miss Hooper," she answered weakly.

"There! Was that so difficult?!" He whirled around, tending to the surgical instruments. He fingered each of the knives, setting them up neatly in order of preference. "You recognize this one, of course?" he held up a blade eight inches in length. Molly shook her head. "Neither did Mary Anne, Annie, Elizabeth, Catherine or Mary Jane," he smiled, shaking his head. "They didn't recognize it at first, naturally. But you're quicker than them," he stepped around the table, moving behind her, he wrapped his arm around her front, the blade against her neck. She inhaled sharply, stiffening under his touch. His mouth was against her ear, "Getting warmer?"

"Yes," she breathed, blinking away tears. "Yes of course, I could not see it properly in this light."

"I knew you would appreciate such an instrument!" he crowed, stepped back. "Those women couldn't appreciate a sharp knife, but you, Miss Molly Hooper, you do! Can you tell the class," he gestured to the room, Moran lingering in the corner, "Why a sharp knife is better than a dull one?" Molly glanced at Moran, wondering if Moriarty meant she was to address him. "Me! Look at me!" Moriarty answered her unspoken question. She fixed her gaze on him then, trying to keep calm.

"It's…it's safer," Moriarty giggled, hugging himself as he chewed on his lower lip.

"Go on then!"

"It's more precise in cutting, there is less damage done to the person wielding it, should they slip and cut themselves."

"And I do hate to make a mess," Moriarty nodded, sober, before breaking into a fit of laughter. "Oh Molly Hooper, we're going to have such fun!"

"We?" Molly parroted.

"Yes 'we'!" Moriarty answered. "I'd like for you to be conscious for this next experiment!"

Molly stared, wide-eyed at Moriarty.

"I'm…I'm sorry?"

"My previous victims-hm-" he covered his mouth, gleeful. " _Patients_ , could not tell me what they felt as I worked, naturally, I'd like to hear from you," he flashed a toothy grin, approaching her. "Do be honest, this is for posterity."

She shut her eyes tight, waiting for him to carve into her, but after a few moments, she cracked an eye open, only to see Moriarty double over with laughter.

"You poor thing, honestly, I'm not an idiot. But naughty Miss Molly, thinking I'd gut her while she's still breathing." His expression turned positively monstrous. "What a stupid, stupid, _stupid_ thing to believe!"

"It's too messy," she realized, heart pounding in her chest, from relief for fright, or probably both.

"There you go!" Moriarty clapped his hands, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You _are_ clever!" He was smiling so pleasantly at her, so still and calm. He lurched, leaping onto her lap, scalpel pressed against her cheek. He covered her mouth with his hand to muffle her cry. "But you should be punished, Molly Hooper, keeping Sherlock Holmes to yourself…and you know," the scalpel cut into her cheek, and he drug it slowly, carving along her cheekbone. "I'm afraid it really is your fault Mrs. Kelly died." He sighed dolefully, wide-eyed at her, removing the knife from her flesh. "So you must be disciplined for that." Moran straightened from the wall, removing his hands from his pockets. Molly watched, unable to move, for Moriarty was still straddling her in the chair. Her cheek burned, she could feel the blood rushing to the cut. It felt like it was the length of her cheekbone, but it still stung too much for her to be certain.

Moran removed a clean kerchief from a box on the side-table. Folding it neatly, he handed it to Moriarty who took hold of Molly's jaw, pried her mouth open and stuffed it in, pressing her tongue to the bottom of her mouth. She struggled, unable to stop the whine in her throat. She began to cry, and Moriarty stroked her unmarred cheek.  
"Ohhhh…there, there, there, we've _lots_ to do, and so much time to do it in, so there's no rush dearie, no rush at all." He got off her lap, turning to Moran. "Set down clean papers, will you? I think this time we'll start with bruises and how quickly they form." Moran nodded, leaving quietly. Hands in his pockets, Moriarty swiveled back to Molly. "You see, I'd like to give Sherlock a sporting chance in finding you. If he takes _too_ long, however, I'm afraid we'll have to start sending him little clues. I think he'd figure them out faster than the police would." He sighed. "Do you think a finger would get the message across or do you think he'd prefer something a little more personal? You know him better than I do." Molly felt as if she might be sick.

Moran returned, empty-handed.

"There's a man looking around the building," he said. Molly lifted her head. Could it be Sherlock already? She prayed it was.

"Who?" Moriarty demanded.

"Don't know, copper by the looks of him. He's got a boy with him." Moriarty turned to Molly, noting her hopeful expression. "Someone our Sherly knows?" Molly didn't answer, couldn't, would have been a more accurate way of putting it. Moriarty approached, struck her damaged cheek, scowling at the blood staining his fingers. "Does. Sherlock. Know him?" She nodded, managing a noise of confirmation. Tears filled her eyes at the pain throbbing in her cheek. Moriarty sagged at the knees, groaning.  
"No, no, no, no!" he flung the knife at the wall. "He's ruining everything!" He turned to Moran. "Go get rid of him!"

"He might be leading Mr. Holmes to us," Moran offered. Moriarty nodded, realizing.

"Very well, keep him distracted, I'll set to work on her." Moran nodded, hurrying to the door. "Seb," Moriarty called and the man stopped, turning. "Distracted does not mean lead him off a cliff."

"Both of them?" Moran asked. Moriarty paused, thoughtful, looking back at Molly.

"Sherlock doesn't need two blood-hounds, does he?" Moran nodded, understanding and left quietly. "Now!" Moriarty clapped his hands. By now, Molly had worked the gag out of her mouth, spat it on the ground and opened her mouth, letting out an ear-piercing screech. "Oh good!" Moriarty did a dance up to her chair. "You already know the game!" He disappeared from her line of sight, but she kept on screaming. She felt the chair being pushed forward, and suddenly her forehead was pressed into the thread-bare carpet. Moriarty kicked the chair onto its side, she felt his foot come in contact with her middle, she gasped, feeling the wind knocked out of her. "Scream away, scream away," Moriarty sang mockingly. "You know Mary Kelly sang a pretty song for me," he knelt down, lifting her head by a hank of her hair. "I don't suppose you know any songs." Molly shook her head, gasping for air. "Hm," Moriarty shrugged with a sigh. "Well, one can't have everything." He lifted her chair, setting it upright. "Sing nice and loud for the copper, Miss Molly!"


	9. Chapter 9

"What's next?" Irene Adler wrung her hands together in her muff, trying to keep them warm. All morning and most of the afternoon in and out of empty factories and buildings, she was tired and cold. If Sherlock or John knew, they made no mention, determination kept them going.

"The old cotton mill," John said, reading the last business card. "Are you certain these were the only addresses? It seems to me he could be using any of these empty buildings as a hideaway."

"Those are the ones he gave me," Irene shrugged. She looked around, realizing they were alone. "Where did Sherlock go?" she asked.

"He's probably up top," John replied, pocketing the card. Irene scanned the surrounding streets, glancing up, just as she was about to ask what he meant, something caught her eye. Up on an empty balcony, Sherlock Holmes perched himself like a master of a ship, scanning the horizon. He paid them no mind, having had a look at the view, scurried back around to the fire escape, climbing further up.

"What is he doing?" Irene asked.

"Getting a better look, come on, he'll be along in a moment, no doubt with a faster route." Hand on her back, he guided her through an alley, to a narrow street leading to the factory.

"Do you ever get tired of it?" Irene asked after a moment. She glanced overhead again, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

"What?" Watson asked.

"This, running about in the cold and the elements, letting him take all the glory?"

"He doesn't take all the-" John shook his head. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in what Holmes does. Most especially I am here because a good woman was taken and I know for a fact there will be hell to pay from not only Sherlock Holmes but his brother and god knows who else if anything happens to her."

"What's it like, to matter to Sherlock Holmes I wonder?" Irene murmured.

"If you're going to start on that whole 'woe is me for I lost the one I love through no fault of my own' line, please, keep it to yourself," Watson insisted. They neared the back entrance of the factory, and he held up a hand for her to stop where she was so he could have a look around. He spared a glance back at her. "Everyone knows you left him tied up in Russia with no money or means to get back home. If you really loved him you could have bloody-well stayed with him." Irene pulled a face.

"Oh. So he did tell you."

"Nothing of the kind, I asked my wife, who got it out of Mycroft Holmes." He turned back to her, wearing a lopsided grin. "Who else do you think he would telegram to get him back to London?" This earned a knowing smile from Irene Adler.

"Ah yes. The doting big brother. How did he take his little brother at last falling in love?" John shrugged.

"Well as any Holmes I expect- good God!" A blood-chilling scream cut through the fog. Both whirled about, over their heads they heard Sherlock come to a stop on a nearby rooftop.

"Holmes, what was that?" Watson called up.

"From the old textile factory!"

"My God, it couldn't-" Watson breathed.

"There's only one way to find out," Irene picked up her skirts, running towards the building, Sherlock slid down the fire escape.

"There's a short-cut down here, come on Watson!"

 **Abandoned Textile Factory**

"Come on, lad," Lestrade boosted Jimmy up through the broken window. He spared a glance back, the thug was still behind them. Lestrade was itching to teach this one a lesson. Only a spit of a man hits a boy, and he'd see to it this man got what was coming to him.

"I can help!" Jimmy insisted, cradling his broken arm. Lestrade's tie was around his neck, acting as a sling.

"You stay there!" Lestrade ordered him, he turned just in time to block an attack. It'd been some time since he'd been in a good scrap. He shoved the man off him, then quickly tossed his hat up to Jimmy. "Hold this!" He turned back to the man, kicking him over. "Who's your employer? What's so important that to keep a watchdog out? And what's a piece of filth like you doing, hitting children?" Jimmy watched with no small degree of admiration as the Detective Inspector worked the villain over. The man was little more than a punching bag under the DI, and Jimmy began to think a little better of police. Or at least of Lestrade. Still, despite the detective's strength, the man would not give an answer. Lestrade was methodical, using moves that did not waste his energy and he was able to deliver several disabling blows before the man finally buckled. Lestrade rolled him over, pinning him to the ground.

"I'm not gonna ask again, come on, or would you prefer to go downtown?"

"This is private property. Unless you've got a warrant, I suggest you clear off-"

"I heard a woman scream, now are you gonna tell me what that was?" Lestrade pressed

"It's east end, lots of women scream," the man grunted, struggling to get out from under the detective inspector, but he was well and truly stuck under the man.

"Oh, they do, do they?' Lestrade asked with mock-surprise. "Way I see it, someone cries out like that, it's my duty as a copper to see what's the cause of that screaming."

"Piss off!" the man grunted, finding it difficult to breath.

"Right, to the station with you, Jimmy, can you get down from there all right?"

"Moran!" the three turned with a start, another figure came sprinting down the corridor. "Moran she's getting away!" Lestrade was so surprised that Moran wriggled free and shoved him into a pile of crates before taking off.

Jimmy scrabbled down from the broken window, running to help the Inspector up with his good arm.

"Thanks," Lestrade grunted, holding his side. "Cripes," he breathed, feeling a pinch in his side. "Come on, we'll go and find Mister Holmes, he'll be able to track them."

"There's broken glass," Jimmy eyed the floor, then glanced at his shoes, the soles worn almost clean through.

"Come on," Lestrade slung the boy's good arm over his shoulder. "You're light enough I can manage you until it's clear," He looked at the boy's shoes properly as he carried him. "Where'd you get those rags?"

"They were my dad's,"

"They were I'll bet, worn 'em clean through too. Have to see what we can do about that." He hefted Jimmy, getting a better grip.

Stepping out into the daylight, both squinted, but it was Jimmy who caught sight of two familiar men running towards them.

"Mister Holmes!" he cried.

"Good Lord, Jimmy!" Watson came to a stop as Lestrade set the boy down on a covered barrel. "What on earth happened to you, boy?"

"He's all right, for the most part," Lestrade assured them. "I put his arm in a sling, much good that'll do if it's not set."

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded as Watson bent, carefully prodding Jimmy's arm and seeing to any other wounds he had. Irene lingered, wanting to listen, then thought better of it.

"My carriage is down the street, it can bring him somewhere safe. I'll go fetch it." She hurried away, giving Lestrade a once-over, whether of approval or confusion, frankly, Lestrade couldn't tell. He glanced down at his person, trying to brush off the dust. No wonder she'd looked at him funny! He was a sight indeed!

"Man overtook him," Lestrade said, in answer to Sherlock's question. "I fought him off and got us away time enough to get a sling round Jimmy's neck. I pinned the man when he followed us but he wouldn't say who he was. Jimmy said he'd seen Miss Hooper taken here last night, so we came to investigate. I think we found her." Sherlock started for the door, but Lestrade caught him.

"I don't know that she's still there, a man interrupted us before I could get it all out of him, said she was getting away, don't know whether that's true or not,"

"Then there is a chance she is still in the building," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, the boy," Watson interjected.

"Take him to Baker Street and see to him. Leave him in Mrs. Hudson's care once you're finished, and come back here."

"Right," Watson picked him up, careful of his arm.

"Wait!" Jimmy winced as he moved. "The man's name, the other man shouted his name, it was Moran." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, the name was familiar.  
"Watson?"

"From my regiment," Watson nodded. "After the war he went around as a hired gun, one of the best shots in the world."

"Come Lestrade, we're wasting time," Sherlock grabbed the inspector's elbow, wheeling him about before releasing him, sprinting into the dark factory.

 **Upstairs**

Molly leaned against the cubby door, trying to regulate her breathing. She'd gotten free when Moriarty went to see what was taking Moran so long. His table of knives had been upset when he'd kicked her chair over, she'd gotten her hands free with a little trouble (thank goodness she didn't cut her wrists in the process). She'd barely gotten her ankles untied when she heard Moriarty's footsteps. Whether he was coming back or not, she armed herself and hid behind the partway open door before taking her chance, bolting out into the freezing hallway. Her nightgown trailing behind her like a white flag, she'd nearly slipped away scot free, but her feet were bare, and she stumbled over broken glass, crying out in the process. Hearing Moriarty stop and turn, she didn't stay still long enough for him to spot her. Dropping to her knees, she slid along until she reached a cupboard shutting herself in. Taking the knife, she cut the skirt of her dressing gown. Finished with it, she tucked the blade into her pocket and she wrapped her feet so she wouldn't leave a trail of bloody footprints. Now she stood and waited, ignoring the burning in her feet. When she heard nothing, she very quietly opened the door, peeking out. The first step was agony, but she pressed on, knowing it was very well her only chance to get away.

"Yoo-hoo!" Moriarty sang, waving across the way. "Oh don't go that way, Molly-mouse! You could slip and fall, and you know, it'd just _kill_ me if you got hurt." Molly ignored him, running in the opposite direction. She stumbled into Moran who caught her by the arms. Too frightened to speak she almost missed her chance. Before he could restrain her hands she twisted herself, biting his arm as hard as she could. He let go with a yelp and she tasted blood. Kneeing him in the gut, she ran past him as he dropped to the ground. Every step was torture as she fled down the hallway, trying to make her way towards an exit, any exit. At the moment, it was the narrow window at the end of the corridor. A gun fired, and all three stopped stock-still. Molly was frozen for only a moment, deciding not to wait around and find out who was the source of the shot. She slipped through the small window, grunting in pain as the heels of her hands met with broken glass in the pane. Up the rickety metal stairway, she climbed, higher and higher, the icy November wind stealing the breath from her lungs. She shivered, choking back a sob as she clung to the metal railing. She glanced back to see a foot come through the window. With a cry, she whirled around, continuing her ascent. The staircase was missing steps, holding her nightgown and robe in one hand, she stretched, trying to clear the gap. A bullet ricocheted off the handrail and she nearly fell. Catching herself, she turned her head to see Moran taking aim again. Moriarty poked his head out.

"You idiot!" he roared over the wind. "That's not how you're supposed to kill someone!" Hanging on for dear life to a metal beam that could very well break at any moment, Molly could only shake her head. Only Moriarty would argue about the proper way to dispose of a victim. Moran ignored his employer, taking aim again. The angle was awkward, and she was not quite in his sight. He could not gauge the wind, and so when Moran took aim, he missed again. Three more shots rang out, each of them hitting the metal rail above or below her head.

"Perhaps you should throw the gun," she called back. There was a pause, and Moriarty's giggles were carried up by the wind. Moran leaned further out, and Molly found herself, even from the distance she sat at, knowing full-well she was about to be shot. The wind was with her, though she did not know it. She first felt the seam in her nightgown give way, the bullet skimming along just above her waist. It remained lodged in the fleshy part of her side. Moran had missed, somewhat. Quite calmly, she bent, pulling at the ripped fabric. She could see the edge of the wound, and probing it gently, through her blurry eyes (good God it hurt to touch the wound) she could feel the bullet under her skin. She breathed a sigh of relief for small miracles. It was not deep. Propping herself up a little, she leaned over, so the wind would carry her words:

"I'm afraid it's rather a mess, Mr. Moriarty, you wouldn't like it."

"Idiot!" Moriarty cried. "Pry the window apart!" The pain in her feet and hands, coupled now with the bullet wound was almost too much to bear. Grunting, she boosted herself up the stairs on her back, facing the corner of the building that Moran and Moriarty were trying to wriggle out of. With them momentarily stuck, she managed to reach the rooftop. Choosing haste over care, hearing the wood of the windowsill splitting, she hid, tucking herself away between the gables of the roof. Out of sight, she again ripped her dressing robe and began to wrap her hands and upper waist as best she could. She felt quite faint, and hated herself for it. She had to keep awake, she daren't fall unconscious. Lord help her if Moriarty got through the window-

 _Crack! Crack!_

Molly held very still. That was most certainly a gun firing twice. Had Moriarty shot his henchman? Had the gun misfired? Footsteps on the metal stairs made her slouch lower, biting her lip as pain shot up and down her side. Tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, she sniffled. Molly Hooper was very much afraid. The footsteps slowed, they were very near. Hand shaking violently, she dug through the pockets of her dressing gown, finding one of the knives she'd taken from the little room. She listened as two sets of shoes came slipping along the tiles. As they neared the corner, Molly boosted herself up, angling the knife. She saw the corner of a coat and lurched forward with a cry.

Sherlock saw something fly out from behind the gabled roof and stepped back, confused at the clumsiness of the person, until he realized who it was.

"Molly!" He stooped, reaching for her. She lay quite still, having heard his voice, and she began to weep. Carefully, ever so gently, he turned her over onto her back. Blood stained her nightgown, a kind of bandage fashioned from her robe was wrapped thrice around her torso.

"Careful," she murmured through her tears. "I've been shot." A look of alarm crossed his features, and she felt him become so tense that she was afraid for him. But she shook her head. "It's not bad at all," she promised, despite the pain. "Barely a graze really, Doctor Watson can have it out in a jiffy." She smiled through her tears, bandaged fingers running through his hair. "You found me, you found me…" Unable to contain himself, and having no wish to, he bent and kissed her, kissed her red-from-the-cold cheeks, thumbed away her tears, careful of the long cut on her face.

"Your face, what's he done to you," he murmured. "Oh your hands," he realized, and looking her over properly, seeing the bandages, and then her ripped dressing gown. "My god, your feet, what has he done?"

"Ironically, I did all that to myself," she gave a weak laugh, her strength waning. "Trying to escape. Moran was responsible for the bullet, and Moriarty for my face."

"Lestrade," his voice was hoarse as he called over his shoulder, unwilling to look away. "Lestrade go and fetch an ambulance, quickly!" The Inspector nodded, hurrying back down.

"Who fired the gun?" Molly asked. "I heard a gun go off twice."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, believe it or not," Sherlock answered with a smile. "Apparently he's rather a crack-shot." She blinked, finding herself holding her breath.

"Is- is Moriarty-"

"Dead." Sherlock confirmed. "His brains splattered on the wall is proof enough of that. Moran caught the second bullet, also dead."

Sherlock was confused at first, as she broke down in sobs. He was certain this was a time John Watson would tell him to simply hold her, and so he did just that.


	10. Chapter 10

_Note: if you have prompts, or questions regarding stories, characters, relationships within the story or suggestions, please pm me, rather than trying to contact me via reviews. I can't promise I'll follow through and write them, but I will read what you have to say._

* * *

Molly woke to the sensation of cold fingers encircling her wrist.

"How is she, Doctor Watson?" a soft voice asked.

Watson glanced up from his pocket watch to Frederick Hooper.

"Fit as a fiddle in no time at all," the points of his mustache curled upward. "And if I'm not mistaken, soon to be back amongst us," his smile grew as he saw her blink, opening her eyes a little more. "Hello at last, how are you feeling?"

"Sore," Molly croaked, licking her dry lips. She spied a glass of water on her nightstand and reached for it.

Watson reached forward, keeping her from pushing herself up. "Ah-ah, wait," he instructed. Helping her sit up, he pushed her pillows up towards the headboard for her to lean against. "There," he held the glass, setting it against her mouth to help her drink. Perhaps she was still weak and did not realize. She complied until she had her fill. Watson set the glass down again, turning to tend to his bag on the end of the bed. "Your father has been most anxious about you."

Molly reached for her father's hand, only to gasp in surprise. Her palms had been bandaged, and she suddenly remembered the broken glass she'd fallen into.

"Your feet are wrapped up as well, I got all the glass out," Watson promised, seeing her horror. "You'll have to make use of a wheel chair for the time being, I don't want you on your feet until I tell you it's safe."

"You listen to Doctor, now," Mr. Hooper instructed her. He smoothed the bandages on the back of her hand, smiling through his tears.

"I'll see about sending up a tray for you," Watson said, picking up his bag and heading for the door. "You must be famished."

Molly smiled at him. "Thank you Doctor Watson," relief in her voice. She was exhausted still, but at the mention of food, she realized just how hungry she was.

The door shut after the good doctor, and Molly turned back to her father.

"I'm all right now," she said quietly as her father sniffed, wiping his eyes.

"Oh let me cry a little," he gave a watery laugh. "I cried when you were born, when you graduated from the university, got your position at the hospital, why shouldn't I cry now?" He reached, cupping her face. "See you're not completely heartless there," he teased, seeing her own eyes were shining. He gently thumbed at the bandage that ran the length of her cheek. He recalled very clearly when she'd been carried in, he'd catalogued every bruise, every mark, especially her hands and feet. He'd sobbed when Watson told him of the glass in his daughter's hands. He'd cried for he was certain it would mean they were damaged and she wouldn't be able to work. It took some time (he was ashamed to say) for the doctor and Mrs. Watson to convince him that while her hands might be scarred, the glass was not deep enough to damage the nerves.

Molly 's merry laugh broke him from his unhappy memories.

"I get it from you," she smiled as she wiped her eyes, careful of her bandages. "How long was I asleep for?"

"Almost two days," her father answered. "Mrs. Watson has been taking very good care of me, not to worry, and your Mr. Holmes has found us a cook. She was delivered with references by way of Lord Mycroft Holmes," he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He's a funny sort of man, that Lord Mycroft, as if he knows a good deal too much about everyone, and everything."

Smiling, Molly tucked the blanket around her lap.

"I suspect he does at that, father." Her smile fell somewhat, and she grew quite shy then. "How is Sherlock?" She dared glance up at her father, who's smile was fond, and his eyes twinkled at her.

"Ohh," Frederick Hooper smiled knowingly then. "I see how it is now, never mind your poor old father now, eh?"

"Don't say it like that, as if I was only thinking of him," Molly covered his hand in hers. "I was thinking of all of you, you first, always."

"Not true," her father countered, squeezing her fingers gently. "But that's to be expected."

"It is so!" Molly contradicted. "I knew Sherlock would come for me, but who would be waiting with you? You haven't been well lately and…" she trailed off, looking at her lap again, fiddling with the fringe on the blanket.

"I said, Mrs. Watson has taken very good care of me!" Frederick insisted. Mary Watson had been sure he was headed for a stroke. Perhaps he was, but the relief that Molly was safe at home again eased his heart and mind greatly. She was home. Well…home for now. A knock the door reminded him that it was no longer just the two of them. "Come in, come in, she's awake!" Frederick called and the door opened.

Mary appeared, carrying a tray.

"Oh, Mary!" Molly reached for her. Mrs. Watson set the tray down and then embraced her friend.

"Goodness sakes, water works again," Mary sniffed, pressing Molly's cheek. "Oh look at you," she touched Molly's bandaged cheek, careful of the bruises on her jaw.

"I was never much of a looker, so it's no skin off my nose if it leaves a scar," Molly smiled. "Besides, maybe now those awful surgeons at the hospital will start being afraid of me, rather than hating me."

"I'd wager they'd believe you got it in a knife fight!" Mary laughed, eyes still shining. Her smile grew bittersweet, and she bent again, pressing Molly's forehead. Mouth trembling, she smoothed her hair. "Look at that, your hair's all come undone," she dug through her pockets, fishing out a handkerchief. "I'll see about fixing it,"

"That's my cue to leave," Frederick stood, pressing Molly's cheek. "You let Mrs. Watson look after you, and mind you eat your breakfast. In a little while I'll send up your sweetheart." He smiled at her, then winked at Mary before taking his leave.

The door shut behind him as Mary turned and wiped her eyes again before facing Molly, smile on her face.

"Well, aren't you going to ask about Sherlock?" She crossed the room, opening the curtains to let in the light.

"I have," Molly said around a mouthful of food. "So far no one's said anything. Is he all right? Has he slept?"

Mary shook her head. "Not since you've come back, and," her smile was mischievous. "He's sent telegrams to his parents at their house in Sussex, _twice_ , and messages to his brother almost half a dozen times, with almost twice that many in response," Mary bent low to tuck the sheets back into the mattress, smiling up at Molly who stared wide-eyed at her. "I know because I read the addresses before passing them along,"

"Mary!" Molly chastised, then paused. "What did they say?"

"Would I read someone's private mail?" Mary asked, her face the picture of innocence.

Molly swallowed a mouthful of toast, giving her a look. "You might if you 'happened' upon it by way of their pocket and your nimble fingers."

"Well, that's an entirely different thing," Mary said, straightening. "No, I did not read mail from either of the Holmes. But I understand Lady Holmes is coming very soon."

"His mother?!" Molly was alarmed, hand to her breast.

"No, goodness, not yet," Mary shook her head. "I should have said Lady _Anthea_ Holmes. She's been anxious about you, and stopped in yesterday afternoon but you were still asleep. She sent a basket, and promised to look in later in the week."

"That was nice of her."

"Yes, well, better her than Miss Adler."

"Why?" Molly asked. "She hasn't tried calling, has she?"

"Oh yes, several times," Mary nodded, looking a tad annoyed. "I'm sure she means well in her own way, but I don't see how any of this is her business, as she's not friends of the family," she bustled around the room, heading to the wardrobe and bringing out Molly's one tea gown. "Still, I suppose Sherlock feels somewhat indebted to her, seeing as she helped look after one of his Irregulars who got hurt looking for you."

"The little boy?" Molly asked with a start. "Whatever happened to him?"

"Jimmy," Mary said with a nod. "His arm was broken. Lucky Inspector Lestrade was there as well."

"Poor boy,"

"Yes, and poor you, come on," Mary picked up the tray, picked clean now. "Let's get your hair fixed and you in something decent before he comes back." She smiled at Molly's questioning look. "John convinced him to take a walk down to Scotland Yard and help fill in any details as far as the case goes. Inspector Lestrade will want to speak to you as well, as soon as you're able. Once you're up to it, we can send for him and you can give your testimonial."

"As soon as I'm dressed," Molly answered, then paused. "And after I've seen Sherlock."

Mary's smile was dear. "I should think so, after all the trouble you've been through. Come on, then, if you're going to be entertaining men all day, let's get you washed and dressed."

 **Scotland Yard**

"How is she, then? Any news?" Lestrade asked. He watched the consulting detective pace the length of his narrow office, for once not bothering to rifle through the case files that littered his desk.

Sherlock Holmes glanced at the inspector, then looked back at his shoes. "Mary tells me she will wake soon. She has been deprived of sleep for some time, added to it the traumas she endured."

"No doubt," Lestrade nodded, sorrowful. "Well, soon as she's up to it, we'd like to close the case." He was thoughtful then, looking over the Ripper file on his desk. "It's funny, innit? Young woman like Molly Hooper, first female pathologist in probably the whole world, she not only gets kidnapped by the Ripper, she survives it and solves it for us."

"Harrumph."

"Any news on the lad?" Sherlock heard the tentativeness in the inspector's voice and turned to face him then.

"Doctor Watson has informed me Jimmy will recover."

"He have a place to stay, or will you be taking him in?"

"At the moment, I believe Mrs. Hudson is looking after him at Baker Street, why?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"No reason, he's a good lad, wouldn't mind keeping an eye on him myself." Sherlock looked quite surprised then.

"Well…he does not belong to me, only that he's one of my informants is all. You'll have to take up living arrangements with him."

"Might look in on him, see how he's doing," Lestrade said in answer finally. "Must be bored, sitting all day."

Sherlock nodded, understanding somewhat. He reached for his pocket watch, checking the time.

"Well, that's it for me then, they must be nearly finished dressing Miss Hooper by now."

"You don't mind if I pop by Baker Street then, since you're heading over to the Hooper's? I can fetch you a bag if you need it."

Sherlock paused at Lestrade's offer, rubbing his chin, he had not yet shaved in the past two days, and his suit was wrinkled and creased from sitting too long.

"Perhaps I'll stop by Baker Street for a fresh change of clothes," he nodded, heading for the door. "I'll fetch us a cab, meet you downstairs."

"Right."

Lestrade had been thinking long and hard on the boy. Jimmy was homeless, according to several of Sherlock's Irregulars. He was only eight, but dull he was not. There was a good deal of ginger in the boy's heels. He needed looking after. Lestrade wanted to see Jimmy in school, putting that clever brain of his to work. The boy couldn't read, though to his credit he knew a few of his letters. The boy had a hunger for learning, and liked to be useful. Lestrade knew too well what might happen as Jimmy got older. He might fall in with the wrong crowd, or he'd take odd jobs that were dangerous. While most of Sherlock's Irregulars were well looked after, there were always a few that drifted by the wayside and eventually found themselves without Sherlock Holmes' protection and on the wrong side of the law. Lestrade would have hated to see that happen to Jimmy. If there was something he could do to help him along, he wanted to, very much. He hadn't told Sherlock this yet, not sure of the Consulting Detective's reaction.

Grabbing his coat and hat, he headed down, passing by Sally Donovan's desk.

"You tell him then?" she asked. Lestrade paused then.

"Sort of."

"Go on then," she smiled, up at him, her dark eyes sparkling.

"I will," Lestrade insisted, though his grin was cheeky. "Same as I'll get around to telling you."

"Tell me what?" she leaned over her desk, minding she didn't put her hands on any of the photographs for current cases. He leaned over as well, nose-to-nose.

"You know what," he poked his head around the partition. "I'll let you know how it goes!" He hurried towards the door, putting on his hat. Sally only shook her head, turning back to the photographs spread across her desk.

"'You know what'," she muttered, grinning to herself. "I know plenty; we just aren't allowed to say on account of our supervisor." Lestrade gave a quick look-around, seeing no one was about and ducked back in to give her a quick kiss.

"I'll see you later tonight."

"You'd better," Sally folded her arms across her middle, and she smiled.

"Come _on_ , Lestrade!" Sherlock bellowed from the sidewalk. Lestrade looked down the hall through the open door, waving that he was coming.

"Right, later," he nodded and hurried out to the waiting cab.

 **Hooper Residence**

It was just as well Sherlock decided to go home for a change and a shave, Molly's hair needed washing which was a time-consuming process. Mary and Ellen carried her between them to a chair in the adjoining washroom. Setting her by the bath, they instructed her to lean forward over the tub so that she and Ellen could take turns pouring hot water over her head and neck. After, while Ellen wrung out her mistress' hair, she told her all about what Mr. Holmes had been up to while she was asleep.

"He's done nothing but pace the length and breadth of the house," Ellen said in hushed tones. Her eyes quite revealed just how keen a delight she took in the famous Consulting Detective waiting upon her mistress. She began plaiting her damp hair, smiling at her reflection as she continued, "He's barely eaten a thing, only your father could get him to take a cup of coffee and a little bit of a meat pasty, but that was yesterday."

Molly tried to excuse his behavior. "He's not one to eat when he's on a case," she said.

"But isn't the case over?" Ellen asked, looking from her mistress to Mrs. Watson.

"It is indeed," Mary replied with a knowing smile. "There must be something else weighing on his mind." Molly, for her part, flushed quite pink, and said no more on the matter.

In a little while Molly was dressed, her hair, though still damp, had been braided and hung down her back.

"We'll have to set you by the fire so your hair can finish drying," Mary said. "I don't suppose you'd like to visit with a very anxious consulting detective while you wait?"

"Mary, for goodness sake, let him in!" Molly begged.

Sherlock had already let himself in, greeted Frederick, and started up the stairs by the time Ellen had gathered the old linens and was heading downstairs.

"Go right up, Mr. Holmes," she beamed, happy to finally give him the message he was waiting for. "She's expecting you."

Taking the stairs two at a time, he suddenly found himself quite anxious. He had not been allowed in the room for the past two days (she'd been sleeping, and while Frederick trusted the consulting detective, he couldn't allow a single gentleman in the bedroom of his thus-far still-single daughter).

"If you'd proposed before-hand, well that'd be different," Frederick had said and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He hadn't asked Molly yet for the precise reason that she felt they weren't ready. Stuff that. He'd propose this afternoon!

If she'd let him that is.

He lingered by the doorway, waiting for Mary to notice him. He watched for a moment as one of his dearest friends took care of the woman who mattered most to him. Molly was pale, but her color was coming back. Her hair was damp, and the room smelled of castile soap. She appeared relaxed, and he was glad to see the breakfast tray near the bed was empty. The room was warm, and somewhat changed from when he'd last seen it. The bed was made this time, no heart in a small box sat on the floor, and the windowsill had been scrubbed of any boot marks. The window latches had been changed as well, he noted, glad that Frederick had heeded his suggestion.

Mary straightened from tugging a light blanket over Molly's lap, noticing the consulting detective watching them from the doorway.

"I'll see if Mrs. Levinson can send up a fresh pot of tea," Mary smiled, patting the back of Molly's hand before heading out. "Mind you leave the door open," she said as she passed Sherlock, and he promised he would.

Stepping at last into her room, he waited, listening to Mary's retreating footsteps before crossing the room in four strides. Sinking to his knees, he reached, cupping her face in his hands. She moved with him, bending so he could reach her without disturbing her bandages. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw and finally her mouth, murmuring her name like a prayer until he felt her bandaged hands cover his, and she turned her head to the side. This, of course, rather exposed her neck to him, and so he naturally bent and kissed that too, pleased at the gasp (he did deduce a good deal of pleasure as well as surprise in her exclamation) that elicited from her.

"Sherlock," she said, gently. He took note of the tremble in her voice, and leaned back, realizing the unspoken warning that he had best not start what neither of them ought to finish just yet. He studied her carefully, looking for any sign of disapproval.

 _Nervous._

 _Embarrassed._

 _Pleased._

He stood, taking the chair near the bed and dragging it over across from hers.

"Forgive me," he said at last.

She was still blushing as she folded her hands in her lap, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Mary told me you've written to your mother."

"Yes," he settled into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I thought it was high time you met, there will be time enough for a visit later on when we're married, but as you cannot travel far in your condition right now, and she has not been to London in almost a year, she might as well come, she and father, that is."

Molly was nothing less than alarmed. "Oh, what did she say? Will she come? I can't receive looking the way I do!"

"Certainly you can! She sent me a reply this morning," Sherlock answered. "She'll come in a week's time. You'll be up and about by then, or at least used to the wheel chair then."

"Where will they stay? A great lady like your mother should be in a fine hotel-"

"She has asked that perhaps she and father, if it is not imposing, may stay here, to be of assistance while you are on the mend," Sherlock dug through his pockets, finding in his jacket his pipe and the leather slipper of tobacco. He'd squirreled it away when he'd returned to Baker Street to change. He filled the bowl, pressing down the fragrant tobacco and then searched his pockets for a match. "She has liked very much what she's heard of you," he continued, the stem clenched between his teeth as he found a match and lit his pipe. "She's quite proud of you, you know, what you've overcome, what you've survived, and too of your work."

"My work?" Molly echoed, shocked.

"Hmm," he blew a smoke ring, and then another before he slouched somewhat in the chair (a sign Molly took to mean he was quite comfortable, and she smiled inwardly at this). "I had told her something of your position at Barts, and she had Mycroft send her your papers that you had published." He sat, puffing away on his pipe and Molly didn't know what to think for a moment.

"So…she's, she knows of us then, that we'd like to be married?"

"I imagine she's put two and two together," Sherlock nodded, smiling.

A soft knock on the door and they turned to see Ellen standing with a tea tray.

"Mrs. Levinson sent up your favorite cake," the maid said to her mistress.

"How did she know I wonder?"

"I told her, obviously," Sherlock said. "Thank you, Ellen," the maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried back out. Molly reached for the teapot but a look from him had her sitting back in her chair. She folded her arms across her middle, thoroughly amused at the sight before her.

Pipe firmly between his teeth, he kept puffing away as he poured out, handing over her cup. He glanced up at her as he moved the sugar bowl into her reach.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she reached for her teacup, but the bandages were a hindrance. He made to help her, but she waved him off. "I can manage." He watched, amused, as she tried to pick up the cup with the heels of her hands, with the bowl of the cup resting loosely in her palms, but the porcelain was too hot. Eventually, she managed to hold the handle of the cup with the tips of her fingers, she could drink. "I just think…"

"Hmm, yes, you do a lot of that, especially whenever I broach the subject of my mother…" He leaned against his elbow on the table, smiling as she rather indelicately sipped her tea.

"I'm nervous, aren't I allowed that? We aren't even engaged yet, and your mother is coming to stay, and that she feels obligated to look after me as if I needed looking after indeed- oh botheration!" The cup slipped from her hands, dropping onto her lap. Hot tea splashed against her gown and she hissed in pain. Pushing herself up for a moment on her wrists and forearms, she sank back down into the chair, unable to keep herself suspended. Sherlock was on his feet immediately, removing the soiled blanket. He folded it over and tossed it by the open door.

"Clearly," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Never mind it, you'll have a new trousseau soon enough, you can stain them all too if you like," he teased. Seeing she was not smiling, he sobered, bringing his chair closer. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride," she grumbled, trying to blot the stain with a napkin.

"Do you not want to meet her?" he asked softly. She raised her head then, and he found himself lost in her eyes. So much emotion, so much to say! He could see her trying to think of a way to say something, perhaps in a way that would not offend or hurt him. He felt his heart sink.

"I do," she said, quite feelingly. "But…oh Sherlock, look at me!" she cried, gesturing to herself. "I can't even walk, I'm all bandages and bruises, I need help drinking from a teacup, for goodness sakes! I want to show your mother, a great lady, that I can be a good wife to her son, who happens to be a great man. I want to show her that I love him, that I can stand on my own feet."

"You will," he promised. He held his pipe between his fingers, and with his free hand, dug through his waistcoat pocket. "Especially if she sees you've got this." He held out an oblong box, not quite one a ring would be kept in. She tried very hard not to look disappointed. Sherlock saw, of course, but he also noticed that she leaned forward, eager to see what he had brought her. "I realize," he said as he undid the fastenings on the box, "That you cannot wear a ring until your hands are healed, so, I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind wearing it around your neck, until such time occurs." He opened the box then, holding it open for her to see inside a gold chain, and on one end hung a gold ring with ivy leaves and forget-me-nots engraved on the band. "It's an emerald setting," he continued. "Mycroft was given Granny's sapphire, but I rather think the emerald suits you…" he trailed off, realizing she had not spoken yet.

"When did she give it to you?" Molly breathed, quite overcome. She looked up at Sherlock, waiting for him to answer. His mouth hung open slightly, and he smiled then, facing her.

"As soon as I told her about you." He took her hands then, carefully, thumbs smoothing over the backs of her fingers. "I want so much for you to see that you needn't be anyone but yourself, you don't have to worry about making a good impression on her, she likes you already."

Molly was quiet, pondering his words. Finally, she lifted her eyes, expression still serious.

"What about your father?"

"Very much like yours, if I'm honest, which is why I rather got on with Frederick," Sherlock smiled. "He and father should have a marvelous time in your father's study. All those plants, I'm sure the only argument that will erupt between them will be what makes the best plant food." Molly laughed then, genuinely, and he was pleased, seeing the relief in her face. "You still have not answered me, Miss Hooper."

"Haven't I?" she asked, and he took note of the teasing in her voice.

"Minx," he muttered, reaching for the box that had fallen shut again. Removing the chain and ring, he held it out to her. "Shall I get down on one knee?"

"You'd better," she said, almost laughing. "After all I went through for you in that old factory!"

He was on his knees in an instant, eyes twinkling merrily at her, though his expression was serious.

"Molly Hooper," he began. "Dear, lovely, pathologist extraordinare, with skill beyond compare, despite your scarred fingers, your knowledge of the human body is incomparable, and I find the sight of you holding a brain to be- do tell me when to stop and get on with it-"

"Get on with it!" she laughed, truly laughed then and he smiled, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger.

"Will you do me the honor, the favor," he smiled so fondly at her, with such affection, so much esteem and love that Molly felt she would burst. "Will you marry me?"

The tips of her fingers were bare, and she could just barely bend them around the hand that held the engagement ring. Trembling, she managed a nod, and he quite happily closed the distance, kissing her at last.

"I didn't hear a 'yes'!"

They both flew apart, looking to the door where Mary Watson and Ellen peered from the doorway. Sherlock still held the ring and chain.

"She said yes," he informed them, and rounded the wheel chair, hooking the necklace around Molly's neck. She reached for the ring, holding it up to the light.

"Come and see Mary," she nodded. "And you Ellen, look!"

Sherlock found himself nearly shoved out of the way as the women bustled in, cooing and squealing, kissing Molly's cheeks in congratulations and admiring the ring.

"Yes well, it was…most appropriate," Sherlock muttered, feeling quite pushed out of his own engagement. Mary turned then, and taking his arm, pressed his cheek.

"Put out your pipe, and go and fetch Mr. Hooper," she said. "Ellen, go and find Doctor Watson, he should be in the library, and send a boy for Lord Mycroft, he ought to know too, if he doesn't by now."

"Shall I tell cook to make a big dinner?" Ellen asked, barely able to contain her excitement.

"Oh no," Molly said quickly. "She's only just begun, and it's so short notice. Whatever she's preparing will be fine," Molly insisted.

"But do send along a note to Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted. "Have him bring whatever is best in his wine cellar."

So the celebrating began that very afternoon. Mrs. Levinson sent up a message that it was too late to oblige Miss Hooper, she had already put a goose in, and she would simply have to be happy with a great roast dinner with all the trimmings that went with it. Lady Anthea arrived with Mycroft in short order, who carried a basket bearing six bottles of champagne.

"I hope you don't mind," Anthea said, bending to kiss Molly's cheek. "But the message said whatever we had that's best,"

"It was a gift from their Royal Highnesses' cellar," Mycroft said, a touch of annoyance. "Still, it must be drunk eventually, and one doesn't celebrate an engagement every day." Passing the basket to Ellen to bring to the kitchen, Mycroft removed his hat, gloves, coat, and then turned to Molly. His expression grew fond then, and he bent, tenderly kissing her cheek. "My dear woman, will you accept my condolences?"

"Thank you so much," she answered, quite serious, and then broke into a fit of giggles. Mycroft smiled then, gently pressing her arm before stepping over to Sherlock, grasping his hand.

"When is mother due?"

"In a week," Sherlock replied.

"Shall I put them up at The Savoy again?"

"No, ehm…she actually requested to stay here."

"Here?" Mycroft snorted. Molly and Frederick and Anthea all looked at Mycroft, who realized. "Oh, you mean, here, of course, how marvelous!" The others turned back, talking again, and Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged wide-eyed 'that was foolishly close' expressions.

"She wants to," Sherlock said, low, to his brother. "She's already quite fond of Molly."

"I expected as much," Mycroft nodded. "I suppose in the long-run it will be quite suitable, Mother and Father have never appreciated The Savoy."

"A hotel is a hotel," Sherlock quipped flippantly. Seeing Frederick motioning to them, Sherlock nodded to his brother, stepping towards the group.

"Come see, come see," the elderly man chortled, holding the box of cigars out to them. They saw John Watson had joined the group. "I've been saving these for a special occasion, something for us gentlemen to enjoy after dinner."

"I have brought a very find brandy that would go well with these," Mycroft spoke up then. He saw the brand of cigar, and quite approved, looking forward to after dinner now.

The group was merry, and all afternoon they visited, much to Mycroft and Sherlock's chagrin, but with the promise of a good dinner, and too the fear of offending Molly, they stayed and endured the endless chatter, though Molly sent them out to the garden several times so they could take a break from all the noise.

"I know it's not what you enjoy," Molly said. "Go on, clear your head, you and Mycroft, I've got Doctor Watson and Mary and Anthea to keep father and I company!"

Out in the garden, Mycroft handed his brother a cigarette before taking one for himself.

"Prince George V swears by these, gave me a whole bloody box of them," he said. "They're bloody disgusting," Mycroft said. "But in a pinch, and when one doesn't want to waste a good cigar…"

"Hmm," Sherlock lit his, then passed the match over to his brother. "So," he released a long breath of smoke into the cold dusk air. He looked up, the first evening stars were just beginning to appear. "You like her then?"

Mycroft flicked the end of his cigarette, pulling a face at the acrid smell.

"Would I be here if I did not approve?"

"I'm not asking if you approve, I am asking if you like her," Sherlock took another drag from the cigarette, nearly gagging. Not at all like smoking a cigar, still the affect was not unpleasant.

Mycroft thought for a moment, smoke trailing from the tip of his cigarette. "She is unique," he said finally. "She is unconventionally pretty, and even in a wheel chair in a stained tea gown she manages to command some kind of elegance in her manner." He glanced at his brother, pausing to take a quick drag. "I trust you know that I'll have to like her more than you now, so you'd better take good care of her, or you'll have the wrath of mother, father, Frederick Hooper, Doctor and Mrs. Watson, Inspector Lestrade and Anthea on your head.

Sherlock's smile reached his eyes, and he looked at his feet before quickly glancing at his brother.

"I know."

"Good." Mycroft dropped his cigarette, stamping it out. "I'm going in; this is making me ill."

"You smoke like an amateur," Sherlock said.

"No, I just don't like cigarettes. They stink." He paused at the door. "Coming in?"

"In a moment," Sherlock replied. He waited for the door to close, and when it didn't, he looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft looking back at him.

"That woman does love you, for whatever reason," he said at last.

Sherlock was quiet. "Yes I know," he nodded. "God knows why."

"Don't…don't take that for granted, Sherlock." He looked as if he wanted to say more, and Sherlock waited for him, but instead Mycroft only nodded, and went inside.

Standing in the cold November air, Sherlock blew smoke rings and watched as the sky grew darker, and the stars began to appear.

He reflected on that day, on the people that filled his life now. His own, odd family, and Molly was a part of it now, a permanent part of it. He still felt his heart lurch when he thought of how close he'd come to losing her. Perhaps Mycroft was right to worry about his affection for his fiancée. Perhaps. But even Mycroft was not in possession of all the facts. He knew Sherlock had been attracted to Molly, knew that he'd told their mother about Molly too. That alone spoke volumes.

Muffled laughter reached his ears, and he turned, looking back at the house, warm light pouring from the windows. There was a time he would have hated the sound of voices, he would have rebuffed caresses from a woman, and ignored outstretched hands. There was a time he would have been perfectly happy to stay outside in the cold and smoke until the night was over. But now…hearing their voices, he missed them all suddenly. He listened hard, singling out Molly's laughter, it was not her polite laugh, but one that it seemed only her father could entice from her. Sherlock dearly wanted to make Molly laugh like that, he wanted to make her happy, for her to want him to be happy with her. He felt such a need, down to his bones to share the rest of his life with her, to not miss a single moment he wished suddenly they didn't have to wait to be married. So much time had been wasted already!

Without a second thought, he stamped out his cigarette and turned toward the house. The door opened, and there stood Watson.  
"There you are! Come on then, the cook just brought out dinner, Molly's been asking for you, and if you think you're going to go without a heaping plateful- no _two_ heaping platefuls-"

"Watson, calm yourself," Sherlock said as he made his way across the yard and up to the door. "I am well aware of my empty stomach, in fact for the past hour and a half, my guts have done nothing _but_ remind me of the lack of nourishment, and I fully intend to take advantage of what I have no doubt to be a feast fit for kings, thanks to Mrs. Levinson's efforts." He beamed at the thoroughly confused Doctor and stepped into the warm house. Watson shook his head, closing the door behind them.

As they gathered at the tables Sherlock came to stand by Molly's chair.

"Molly, may I speak with you privately?" the table was suddenly quiet, and everyone turned to the pathologist.

"Of course you can." She answered softly.

"Do carry on without us, we won't be a moment," Sherlock said, wheeling Molly through to the sitting room. The group all leaned backwards and forwards, to see through the open dining room doors.

"Do you truly wish to marry me?" he asked, once the doors to the sitting room were shut behind him.

"What? Of course I do!" Molly reached for him. "Sherlock…what is it? Tell me what the matter is."

"There is nothing the matter," he scrubbed his hands through his hair, frustrated. "I-" he hesitated, hating himself for being so selfish. It was not mere carnal desire to want to be married so quickly (he was not an animal, for God's sake). He simply wanted the formalities to be over with. They knew they loved each other. But he was afraid too that Molly was not so eager as him. Perhaps she wanted a big wedding, to take the months to prepare and choose flowers and decorations.

"Sherlock," her gentle voice brought him to the present again, and he blinked quickly.

"Sorry…" he murmured, shaking his head.

"What is it?" she asked. "Tell me, you know you can tell me anything."

"I can, can't I?" he asked, suddenly shy. She looked as if she was about to cry, and she reached slowly for the ring on the chain around her neck.

"It was too soon, wasn't it?" she began to take the necklace off, but he stopped her, coming to kneel before her.

Shaking his head, he carefully took her hands in his. "No, Molly, that's not it at all," he sighed heavily, resting his forehead against hers. "I simply…I want all this to be over, for all the formalities, the parties, the before-wedding dues to be over. I want to be married now, I would have us married tonight if you would allow it- if your father would allow it!" He inched closer, sighing again, feeling some relief at having gotten that off his chest. "I almost lost you, I never told you how that felt…and it…I suddenly remembered that feeling and I couldn't face it, I don't want to face going without you another day."

Gently, carefully, she carded the tips of her bare fingers through his hair as he rested his head against her lap.

"Oh Sherlock," she smiled through her tears. "I almost lost you too, you know."

He raised his head then. "You did, didn't you?" Again, he silently berated himself. She had almost died, and here he was thinking only of his own feelings! Before he could say aloud the next thought in his head, he felt her hands cup his cheeks, forcing him to look up at her.

"Don't you dare say what you're thinking," she said, her voice very terrible and quiet. "Do not ever think that I should marry someone else." There were tears in her eyes again, and he briefly wondered why, before his own vision blurred. She sniffed, thumbing away his tears. "There is no one in the world for me but you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and if you want to be married before next summer, then," again she sniffed, wiping her nose on her cuff. "Then that's what we'll bloody do."

Laughing through his tears (for they were both unashamedly weepy now) he smiled at her. "Truly?"

"Yes, truly. Your mother and father are coming, and the time has not been specified for their return to the country. Give me a month to get ready, to heal a little," she cradled his head in her hands, and he leaned against her legs, face shining at her. "We'll be married in the new year, early in January."

His only answer was to kiss her, and kiss her thoroughly, to which she made no protest, and certainly no complaint.

They returned to the dining room, eyes red, but both smiling and happily assuring everyone that all was well, indeed that they had set a date for the wedding. As merry as the group had been before, now they were twice that, and everyone fell to talking. As plates were filled, and suggestions and plans were made for the January wedding, glasses clinked merrily against bottle rims (for the champagne had been opened, and the stuff was being poured generously), Sherlock looked around the table, finding some comfort in each of the faces, even Mycroft's. Molly was right, as she often was. There was no one in the world for her but him, and vice versa. He had changed, but it was because he wanted to, and for the most part, he was largely still very much who he was before. Molly had changed too, hadn't she? That was a silly question though. The events of the Ripper case had changed her, and she had shown her true mettle. She carried herself differently now. Some might have shrunk back into themselves, becoming a hollowed shell of what they once were, having survived what she had. Instead, she bore her scars as a soldier bore a medal from war, humility and recognition of her mortality, but some pride that her strength had carried her this far, that her endurance was not something easily trifled with.

There would always be cases, always a murder or a jewel thief, or an odd cult pretending to practice magic by means of mirrors and smoke. There would be moments of weakness when he would be tempted by old habits he tried very hard to stamp out and sometimes could not. But through it all, somehow, (sometimes he felt undeservedly so), Molly was there to help him through it, giving him what he needed, what she could, what he deserved, whether good or bad. She saw him for who he was, accepted him, and loved him in spite of it. For that, Sherlock gave her his heart, quite willingly. Molly Hooper did not love by halves, and Sherlock appreciated it, for neither did he.

Life for them was not always pretty or safe or easy, but it was shared equally, and happily between them.


End file.
